Ring A Ring O' Roses
by Gallivant
Summary: If working with Draco Malfoy was the last thing Hermione ever wanted, falling in love was the least expected. A quest to thwart a magical weapon of mass destruction has devastating consequences. A race to save the world, becomes a race to save themselves.
1. But Thinking Makes It So

_Dark Magic, Dark Wizards and a mysterious and deadly Dark Flux, which, in the wrong hands, has the terrifying potential to wipe out millions of Muggles ... all this and an unexpected visit from Draco Malfoy. _

_Just when Hermione Weasley thought her bad day couldn't get much worse, she went home..._

**1. But Thinking Makes It So**

'As we discussed, sir, what we now need is professional help in this matter. An insider with connections and access to official resources,' the young man said, 'and experience of investigating Dark Magic. Someone discreet.'

'Have you got the dossier?' his master asked, in clipped, businesslike tones.

The master was sitting behind an ornate, ebony antique desk positioned in front of a large set of French windows, framed by thick green velvet curtains. Shafts of bright, white sunlight streamed through the windows. Beyond the window was a rolling lawn stretching towards a well-tended shrubbery.

'I have it here, sir. We have found some excellent candidates, even if I say so myself,' the young man said, placing a thin file containing twelve or so pieces of parchment on the desk in front of his master.

'Let's see,' said the older man, quickly thumbing through the file. Each document appeared to be a character profile, complete with professional CV and personal details.

'I'd like to draw your attention, sir, to a few of the more outstanding candidates. They have noteworthy experience in handling the Dark Arts and famously helped track down and destroy the Dark Lord's Horcruxes, which proved essential in ending the Second Wizarding War in Britain.'

A shadow passed across the older man's face. 'Yes. I remember it well,' he said stormily. 'Naturally, I know of Harry Potter. Who doesn't? But he's far beyond our reach. I can't see him working outside of the law. Who else do we have?'

The younger man shuffled the papers, sifting out the only document with a photo attached, which he then presented to his master.

'Ronald Bilius Weasley,' he announced. 'He was Potter's closest friend and assistant. He is also Potter's brother-in-law. As an Auror he is very well-connected, and comes from a family with a good pedigree. His brother Percy is in a powerful position at the British Ministry of Magic. He has another brother, Bill, who works at Gringotts bank. And yet another brother who is the world's leading expert on dragons. And then there's George Weasley.'

'Ah! Weasley's Wizard Wheezes? So there's business acumen in the family, too. How very interesting. They seem a talented bunch.'

'Ron's career has been less stellar than his brothers' or Potter's, but he is ambitious,' the younger man said smoothly. 'I think he could be worked upon.'

'He sounds like a fine candidate,' the master said, closing his file. 'A meeting should be arranged as soon as possible.'

'There is one potential sticking point, sir.'

'And what's that, then?'

'His wife.'

The younger man reached over the desk, pulling the file from his master's grasp with a timid, apologetic smile. He tugged another profile from the file, presenting it to his master.

'This is Hermione Weasley, also a former school-friend of Potter's. She's very clever and a diligent researcher. She's currently an esteemed prosecutor at the Department for Magical Law Enforcement in London. She's a well-known social activist and has vigorously campaigned to improve the welfare of house-elves.'

'House-elves?' the older man exclaimed, incredulous.

'Oh yes. House-elves,' the younger man said with a contemptuous sneer. 'And, as a lawyer, she has been a very effective advocate for Muggleborn rights.'

'I don't like the sound of her at all. She could prove to be a fly in the ointment…. Have you met her?'

'Yes.'

'Can she be neutralised?'

The younger man's face darkened. 'I don't think that would be the best way forward, sir. It would compromise her husband's emotional equilibrium at a time when we needed him most.'

'I don't mean fatally,' the older man said with a weary sigh. 'I meant, can she be recruited to the cause?'

'As an active participant, I very much doubt it. She works by the book. Practically speaking too, I doubt she would have the time for anything extra-curricular, sir. She's a notorious workaholic.'

'We have the means to change that if it suits our requirements.'

'Of course, sir.'

'Best to keep her on board… a bit of social cultivation can go a long way with a woman.'

'Quite, sir. All very good, sir.'

'So, have you any ideas how we approach these Weasleys?'

The young man looked thoughtful. 'It's a tricky one, sir. And risky, too. But I have an idea.'

'Enlighten me.'

XXX

Finding Draco Malfoy sitting in her lounge, casually drinking tea, really was the last straw for Hermione Weasley, rounding off what had truly been a terrible day.

Work-wise, it had been murder.

She'd endured five wasted hours trying to convince a bunch of bigoted old wizards - the Wizarding Fraternity of Lincoln City's Medieval quarter – not to enforce an ancient bylaw, which outlawed anyone but purebloods and first generation Half-Bloods from owning businesses inside the old city walls. Hermione reminded them, that the first time these archaic laws had been introduced, as far back as 1381, there'd been a violent riot, and justifiably angry Muggleborns had burned the city walls to the ground.

But the Lincoln Wizards were unmoved. They knew that Hermione had no real powers to stop them, and that the Ministry was increasingly lax at punishing blatant acts of discrimination.

Flushed with failure, Hermione had Apparated back to the Department for Magical Law Enforcement in Central London, only to find that her office had been subjected to a surprise inspection from Internal Affairs.

Apparently, there had been complaints…

Padma Patil, Hermione's immediate deputy, was particularly distressed. With Hermione out of the office, Padma had been subjected to a barrage of random accusations from a Mr Jinks, who she described as a smarmy, officious little man, with a wheedling tone and a permanent leer. He'd turned the office upside down, looking for what he enigmatically described as 'evidence', though he refused to disclose further details.

The office was in complete disarray. Drawers flung open, paperwork dashed to the floor, even furniture moved out of position.

Staring disconsolately at the mess in front of her, Hermione realized it was going to be yet another late finish, so she dispatched an owl to her mother-in-law, Molly Weasley, asking her to pick up Rose and Hugo from their local primary school in Ottery St Catchpole.

Hermione could clearly picture Molly Weasley in her mind's eye, hands on hips, lips puckered in disapproval, sighing in dismay as the Ministry owl came pecking at her kitchen window at The Burrow.

Hermione reckoned she'd be in for yet _another_ lecture when she finally got away from work, and sure enough, Molly obliged... at length.

The gist of her speech followed a well-worn groove.

Wouldn't it be so much easier if Rose and Hugo stayed at The Burrow with her, while their mother spent her days gallivanting here, there and everywhere?

But, _oh no_. Almost every day, Molly had to interrupt whatever she was doing to pick up poor little Rose and Hugo.

And why did Rose and Hugo have to go to a Muggle school? Weasleys had always been home-taught. And it hadn't done _her_ children any harm, had it?

Why should Hermione's children be any different?

Ginny always said she would have happily left James, Albus and Lily in Molly's care, if it wasn't for Harry's new job.

How convenient, Hermione muttered to herself, that Harry's job had taken his family all the way to Paris.

Instead, it was Ron and herself, who had somehow wound up in Ottery St Catchpole; against her own better judgment, she often thought ruefully.

'So where are they?' Hermione finally countered, looking beyond Molly into The Burrow's dimly lit hallway, hoping to retrieve her children and escape.

Molly folded her arms tightly across her chest and smirked, a little too triumphantly for Hermione's liking.

'They've asked to stay here tonight. With me. And Ron said yes.'

'You asked Ron? But he's on assignment.'

Molly shook her head. 'No, dearie. He's not. And once he realized you weren't coming home at a _respectable_ hour, he decided to drop by for his tea.'

Respectable? Hermione almost spluttered her indignation. It was just gone half past seven.

But instead, she heaved what she hoped looked like a grateful sigh, and smiled broadly.

After all, there was no point making waves.

Plus, she was dog-tired, and suddenly a night without the kids was a welcome one.

'Well, at least I won't have to cook tonight,' she muttered, already retreating down the path. 'Thanks, Molly.'

XXX

_Thanks, Molly_, she thought bitterly, repeating the phrase over and over in her head, each time with increasing sarcasm.

She bridled, for the umpteenth time, at Molly Weasley's persistent intransigence regarding Rose and Hugo's schooling. Hadn't she explained, over and over, that there were some links with her Muggle heritage, certain ways of doing things, that she didn't want to relinquish?

Things she wanted her own children to experience.

Still seething, she jogged down the lane leading away from The Burrow, ignoring the gathering gloom cast by the tall elm trees which lined her route, to the village nearby. Chill dusk was closing in fast, and the thick scents of Autumn clotted the air around her.

She shivered a little, hastening her pace.

Minutes later, Hermione's home, a neat redbrick cottage over-run with creeping wisteria, came into view. A faint trickle of light was seeping through closed crimson curtains.

XXX

Hermione was wholly unprepared for the shock of seeing her husband, calmly drinking tea in their neat, little sitting-room with its aged oak beams and whitewashed walls, in the company of Draco Malfoy.

'Ron! What the bloody hell is _he_ doing here?' she choked, pointing a shaking finger at their former nemesis.

At least Draco had the decency, Hermione reflected later, to look a little sheepish.

Ron grinned. 'Oh good. There you are. We were wondering where you'd got to.'

_We_. Had he said we?

Hermione looked from Ron's warm, wholesome face, shining with health and contentment, to the sharp, sullen features of his companion. Even amidst her confusion, it occurred to her that she had rarely seen two more completely different looking men.

'I thought you'd at least send an owl to tell us you'd be late,' Ron continued.

'I didn't even know you were coming home, Ron,' Hermione said pointedly. 'I thought you were at work.'

Ron shrugged. 'I am. _This_,' he nodded towards Draco, 'is my new assignment.'

A perplexed frown stole across Hermione's features.

'So, come on in, love. Take a seat, and hear all about it,' Ron said, eagerly patting an empty space on their shabby, brown leather sofa. Then to Draco, 'you don't mind, do you, mate? You did say she could help out.'

Draco evaded eye contact, staring instead at his hands resting on his lap.

The last thing Hermione wanted right now was to share her sitting-room, her home, with this hateful man, let alone engage in a civil conversation.

'Excuse me,' she breathed. She stumbled backwards then hurried away, almost tripping over a scattering of Hugo's toys, splayed across the length of their hallway. She dumped her work bag in the master bedroom, before heading into their kitchen.

She needed a drink.

XXX

Hermione made herself a large glass of gin and tonic, cranking thick globs of ice out of their enchanted refrigerator's ice-making facility into the glass. She leaned heavily against the kitchen wall, closing her eyes tightly, and took a deep breath. She then downed her drink in one fell swoop.

The drink did little to settle her nerves. Her heart was still racing crazily inside of her.

'Hermione?'

Ron had followed her.

'What the hell are you thinking?' Hermione gasped. 'You can't allow that… that _wanker_ into our home! Have you forgotten all the vile, nasty things he's said and done to us?'

Ron instantly recoiled at her piercing volume, swiftly closing the kitchen door to deaden the noise.

'It's work, Hermione. Nothing else.'

'Witness Protection?'

'No,' Ron said firmly. He placed a large, warm hand on her shoulder and drew her a little closer.

Hermione heaved a huge sigh of relief. 'Thank God for that. For one truly terrible moment I thought this was going to be his safe-house.'

'Nothing like that at all,' Ron smiled tenderly. 'But listen. This is a real, live investigation. And Draco's come up with some seriously interesting information.'

Hermione instinctively cringed.

Had Ron just called him Draco? Really. What was wrong with sticking to _Malfoy_?

'What's going on here, Ron?' she asked hotly.

'Come and have a drink with us, and I'll explain everything,' Ron urged.

'Tell me now.'

'It's best coming from Draco.'

Hermione scowled again, fiercely wriggling out of her husband's grasp.

Ron sighed in exasperation. 'Believe me, Hermione. This is big. Bigger than our petty playground squabbles. Bigger than _us_.'

'You mean, Section A big?'

'Section A,' Ron said affirmatively. 'Most definitely Section A.'

There was an urgent, pleading look in Ron's eyes which Hermione couldn't quite ignore.

'This is the kind of case I trained for. A golden opportunity to make my mark. No more Section D. No more witness protection.'

Hermione realized just how much this meant to Ron. Why else would he politely drink tea with his long-time enemy unless it was to prove himself in Section A?

Ron had spent almost his entire working life, toiling away in Section D, where he had established a fine reputation for himself as one of the best Aurors in the business for ensuring pre-trial Witness Protection. As a consequence, he had been placed in charge of a number of high profile, high-risk cases. But what he had _really _yearned for was a switch to the Ministry's most elite Investigation Unit – Section A.

With Harry Potter's move earlier that year to Paris, there had been a major shake-up at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which had led to Ron's dream move to Section A finally being realized.

'Please, Hermione. Come and join us. Come and hear what he has to say. It only has to be for a few minutes,' Ron begged. He lightly caressed her cheek with his thumb.

Hermione shrugged, forcing a polite smile. 'Sure. Just… just give me a minute, will you?'

XXX

Alone again, Hermione poured herself a fresh gin and tonic.

She was still fuming, of course.

Petty playground squabbles? Is that what he called it? Is that what he called the rude, sneering taunts Draco Malfoy had levelled at her for so many years? The constant degrading comments, mocking her _Muggleborn_ heritage.

And surely Ron had the wit to realize that, even now, virtually fifteen years after the end of the Second War, Draco Malfoy was still not a man to be trusted?

He'd managed to creep his way back into a vague semblance of respectability in wizarding society – particularly since his father's prolonged illness had meant that Draco was all but Head of the Malfoy family. Even so, both Ron and Harry had openly discussed persisting suspicions amongst the Auror teams that Malfoy still flirted with the Dark Arts, in particular the flourishing trade in Dark Magic artefacts.

And yet here was Draco Malfoy, in her own home. Apparently assisting the same Aurors he had spent so long evading.

XXX

'So, come on then. What's this all about?' Hermione asked, kicking off her shoes and curling herself into the corner of their shabby, brown sofa. She might as well see what kind of mess Ron had got himself involved in.

She studiously ignored the cool grey stare of Draco Malfoy, seated somewhere to her right on Ron's favourite well-worn armchair. She could barely believe that Ron had sacrificed it, let alone to a man he purportedly despised.

Ron was momentarily distracted by the icy gin and tonic clinking in Hermione's glass. He regretfully eyed the empty teacup in his hand, then reached over and carefully placed the cup on a side-table nestled between the sofa and Draco's armchair.

'No doubt you've heard of Dark Flux,' he said.

Dark Flux? But of course she had. After all, she was a Muggleborn. Once you had heard of this mysterious, unidentifiable 'matter' with its uncanny and terrifying Muggle-hating properties, you were hardly likely to forget about it.

There had been just two known incidences since Hermione's entry into the Wizarding world when she was eleven years old, where mediwizards had retrospectively concluded that an outbreak of Dark Flux had infected and killed a number of Muggleborn witches and wizards, and a few Muggles to boot.

This phenomenon was known in wizarding circles as the Zametsky Effect – named after the small country town in Russia, where the disastrous effects of Dark Flux had first been noted one hundred years ago.

The most recent event, which had occurred in Paris in 2008, had prompted considerable alarm amongst the Weasley family, as a number of unexplained deaths, bearing all the hallmarks of Dark Flux, suddenly cropped up in the exact same_ arrondissement_ where Harry and Ginny Potter and their young family had just moved. Fears had run especially high in view of Ginny's late-stage pregnancy.

Hermione had explained, in vain it seemed, to the entire Weasley brood, that no harm had ever come to wizards with a pure or half-blood 'pedigree.' So there was really no need to fret.

In truth, Hermione was a little put out that nobody actually realized that the only family member who couldn't possibly dare to visit Ginny, and soon after, her newborn daughter Lily, was, in fact, herself.

Muggles were similarly puzzled by Dark Flux and its deadly consequences, although they didn't actually call it Dark Flux, preferring to view it as a mysterious plague or virus – mercifully limited in scope and generally short-lived. Even so, there was considerable alarm amongst the Muggle population, at the potential for this anomalous medical syndrome to mutate in some newly potent and ghastly way. Perhaps leading to an epidemic for which there was no known cure.

Hermione was suddenly alive with heated curiosity. What possible connection could Draco Malfoy, of all people, have with Dark Flux?

Ron leant forwards, which in turn drew both Hermione and Draco closer towards him.

'Well, for some time now there has been considerable anxiety at the Ministry that Dark Flux might fall into the wrong hands,' Ron said. 'If some kind of dark wizard with an anti-Muggle agenda was to procure Dark Flux, the fear is, it might be weaponised. Then used to target Muggleborns. Or Muggles.'

'Likely both,' Draco said drolly.

Hermione was startled to note that Draco's head was just a few inches from her own. At such close proximity, she could see soft crinkles radiating out from his eyes, and taut lines creased deeply across his forehead.

He looked like a man with worries.

'Exactly,' Ron said. 'The problem is, of course, that the Ministry still doesn't really know what Dark Flux is - whether it's a powder or a gas or some kind of airborne micro-organism - which makes it even more bloody scary.' He nodded at Draco. 'And things have suddenly got even scarier… Go on, Draco. Tell Hermione what you told me.'

Hermione switched her gaze to Draco, who instantly seemed to recoil from such close scrutiny. A faint flush shadowed his pale complexion. To Hermione's astonishment, he even seemed a little tongue-tied, which surely had to be a first. At school, he'd always been such an annoying little motor mouth.

Draco cleared his throat. He hazarded a brief glance at Hermione's stern, inquisitive face, his long, slim fingers casually toying with a silver rose pendant hanging from a silver chain, which hung loosely over the collars of his smartly-fitted, charcoal robe.

'I've got firm evidence that everyone's worst fears about Dark Flux might actually be happening… someone has found a way to detect and harness Dark Flux in its natural state.'

'This is chilling stuff, Hermione,' Ron said vehemently. 'Draco's sources say this guy then plans to release Dark Flux in a highly populated area.'

His eyes dropped enviously to Hermione's glass of gin and tonic, which she was clutching tightly in her right hand, whilst with her left hand, she unconsciously fiddled with an unruly lock of hair which framed her face.

'Actually, the plan is to target the Muggle population of London,' Draco said.

Hermione narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

'Although we don't know all the details yet - obviously,' he added, instantly defensive.

Hermione suppressed a nervous snicker. She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

This was nonsense. A wind-up.

'So tell me, Malfoy,' she said, tightly folding her arms across her chest while fixing Draco with a hard stare. Her husband might have descended to first-name terms, but she'd be damned if she did the same.

'Have your sources told you exactly how this individual can track Dark Flux, seeing as nobody even knows what it darned well is? You do know, Malfoy, that Dark Flux is registered at the Ministry, and classified by all peer-approved contemporary scientific research as a _Verifiable Imponderable_, meaning it defies rational explanation.'

Draco smirked. 'I'm surprised, Mrs Weasley, that you remain so uninformed. Dark Flux was officially removed from the Ministry's master-list of Verifiable Imponderables last year. In any case, Dark Flux research has continued, regardless of the Ministry's attitude. You've heard of The Jeroboam Foundation, I take it?' he asked, a crooked smile curling his upper lip into an all-too familiar sneer.

Of course she'd heard of The Jeroboam Foundation! _Everybody_ had heard of it. The foundation was a major sponsor into all sorts of worthy research projects across a variety of fields, most especially Medi-Magic.

'Saul Jeroboam is highly respected, and a very generous philanthropist,' Hermione said, primly pursing her lips.

'The bloke's loaded,' Ron sniffed. 'He can afford to splash his money about.'

'Jeroboam's _do-gooding_ image is a front. Believe me,' Draco said assuredly.

'Believe _you_?' Hermione snorted.

There was a weighty lull in the conversation.

'Just about everyone thinks Jeroboam is a bit of an oddball…' Ron said in reasonable tones. He's this brilliant scientist, got pots of money, companies coming out of his ears… but he's a complete recluse. Hides away up in the mountains in Switzerland. Never communicates with anybody –'

'Social timidity is not a criminal offence, Ron,' Hermione interjected.

'Of course, Hermione,' Ron said. 'But there are also rumours that he likes to avoid society because he's a pureblood supremacist, who hates mixing it up with Muggleborns and Muggles.' He took a deep breath. 'The sort of guy who'd love to purge the Wizarding world of witches and wizards like _you_, Hermione.'

'And he's developing the perfect weapon to do so,' Draco said in cool tones. Hermione could sense his wintry, grey eyes roaming her face, her hair. 'A weapon which can distinguish between blood.'

'How do you know this?'

'A few years ago a private security firm managed to scout out his headquarters in Switzerland. The place was clean, but they did find blueprints suggesting that a whole load of mobile tracking scanners were being built, to be operated worldwide, checking out new Dark Flux manifestations where and when they occur.'

'Is that… is that often?' Hermione asked, a slight quaver in her voice. She had always assumed that Dark Flux was an extremely rare phenomenon.

Draco's eyes glowed silver with meaning. 'More often than you think, Mrs Weasley… Anyway, sources suggest those blueprints have become a reality, and that Jeroboam has now developed a machine which traces – and can maybe even accrue - Dark Flux matter.'

'So, why are you telling _me _about this?' Hermione shrilled. 'Isn't this a matter for the Aurors? The Ministry? Come to think of it, it's probably even a matter for the Muggle authorities too. They've got stacks of anti-terrorism measures at their disposal.'

Ron sighed deeply.

'You have told your superiors about this, Ron, haven't you?' Hermione asked, a note of sharp concern in her voice.

'The thing is, Hermione,' Ron said. 'Draco has come to _me_, and me alone. _Not_ the Auror division. Although, strictly speaking, I'm still acting in my professional capacity.'

A sharp clattering at the window alerted the party to an incoming owl. Ron rose from his seat to open the window and accept the message tethered to the owl's leg.

'Draco's run into a fair bit of trouble lately,' Ron continued haltingly, quickly scanning the message with a small frown. Even from a distance, Hermione could recognise Molly Weasley's large, scrawly handwriting. 'If he goes directly to the Investigation Unit, they'll hang, draw and quarter him before listening to a single word he says - which isn't going to help anybody, is it?'

He gathered up his and Draco's empty teacups.

'I'm for something stronger,' he muttered, gesturing towards the kitchen. 'And Hugo wants his Captain Magic teddy bear.' He moved towards the door. 'Anyone else for a drink?'

Draco shook his head.

Ron swept out of the room, leaving the door wide open. His sudden absence sent a chill through the room.

Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably, listening to the sounds of clanking glass and rushing water emanating from the kitchen.

Really, it was unbearable having to share her sitting room, her personal space, with a man like Malfoy. He made her skin crawl.

'You shouldn't be here,' she hissed, turning on him, unable to suppress her irritation any longer.

'I had nowhere else to go,' Draco remonstrated forcefully.

'Rubbish! If there was any truth in what you're saying, the Ministry would have no choice but to give you a fair hearing.'

'No way! Not me! I'm the target of a concerted hate campaign.'

'I doubt that very much,' Hermione said in cutting tones.

'Well, it's true. Six months ago, those cretinous do-gooding bastards in Section B fined me a wad of cash for handling what _they_ described as unwarranted objects,' Draco explained sniffily.

'I hear Dark Magic artefacts are quite the rage at the moment,' Hermione replied, brandishing a sarcastic smile. 'You must be making a roaring trade.'

'I _wasn't_ trading.'

'Of course not.' Hermione shook her head in disbelief.

Draco grimaced peevishly. 'You've no idea what I have to put up with. You see, I have to travel a lot for my work-'

'Draco is the global business manager for Herb Healing Ltd,' Ron hastily explained, returning with a glass tumbler of firewhisky, and Captain Magic, who he swiftly reattached to the waiting owl, which he then shunted off the window-sill.

He was about to sit down again, but then seemed to have second thoughts, dashing back to the kitchen, glass in hand.

'But in my case, travel and work _combined_ appears to be a highly suspicious activity … according to the Ministry at any rate,' Draco complained heatedly, raising his voice so that Ron could hear him. 'Even though I am travelling for perfectly legitimate business reasons, and have scores of witnesses to prove it. But those arseholes in Section B. They're hounding me-'

'Did you say Herb Healing?' Hermione asked incredulously, screwing her face up in disbelief.

Draco nodded.

'You, _Draco Malfoy_? You work for Herb Healing?'

Draco nodded again.

'But doesn't that mean you work with Muggles?'

'Yes. Our main market is Muggles,' Draco agreed, keeping his eyes firmly trained on Hermione's face as he spoke. There was a faintly victorious gleam in Draco's eyes. 'It seems they just can't get enough of our products.'

Hermione was reeling. She could hardly believe her own ears. Was this really the same Draco Malfoy who refused to consort with low-born _Mudbloods_?

'Well, Malfoy,' Hermione sneered. 'I'm in shock. Who'd have thought it?'

'I couldn't care less what you think,' Draco retorted in a quieter, menacing tone.

Ron swung back into the room. His tumbler of Firewhisky was now crowded with large chunks of ice.

'The thing is,' Draco continued, 'in the course of my work I get to meet a lot of very interesting people, and hear a lot of very interesting things. Jeroboam's quest for Dark Flux is currently a recurring theme. Over and over. Everywhere I go. This man means business. _Dark _business.'

'Then surely you're just the man for the job, aren't you Malfoy?' Hermione said snidely.

Draco fixed an icy stare in her direction.

'You might not want to believe a word I say, _Mrs Weasley_-'

'How can I? If you were telling the truth you'd tell the Ministry!' Hermione groaned in frustration.

'Look, Hermione,' Ron cradled his tumbler of firewhisky in his hands, a sorrowful look on his face. 'You know how the Ministry drags these things out…'

'So you want to bypass the Ministry and investigate these claims about Jeroboam yourself?'

'With your help.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Hermione said scornfully. 'I know nothing about the man.'

'_You_ might not,' Ron said, 'but Draco's told me that your colleague Padma and that chap she's going out with… you know… the nerdy one in Ravenclaw.'

'Tony Goldstein.'

'Well, _they've_ got connections with The Jeroboam Foundation. Padma used to work for Arcana Ltd– owned by Jeroboam – and Tony's still there. Been there since Hogwarts. He's some kind of lab boffin.'

'Jeroboam's top researcher actually,' Draco said coolly.

'I know you don't approve of this, Hermione,' Ron said in beseeching tones, 'but could you talk to them? Kind of informally. Especially Tony. We need to get a sense of how The Jeroboam Foundation works - its's such a secretive organization. They might know of former colleagues we can talk to.'

'It's all a bit cloak and dagger, Ron,' Hermione grumbled. 'Can't you just take Jeroboam in for questioning? You are an _Auror,_ after all.'

'Yeah, sure, I could rustle up a warrant for his arrest in no time,' Ron said. 'But Jeroboam has friends in high places. He's a very powerful wizard. So any investigation has to be super-stealthy!'

Hermione heaved a baleful sigh.

She recognised Ron's round-eyed excitement all too well. It was the look of an overgrown puppy with a new toy.

What choice did she have? If it made Ron happy and forestalled any future nagging, then of course she would talk to Padma and Tony – it didn't seem like the most onerous job in the world. And then hopefully, that would put an end to it. And Ron could move on to his next obsession…

XXX

Draco didn't hang around for any social niceties. Just minutes later, he unfurled his lean frame from Ron's favourite armchair, surprising Hermione at how tall he had become - certainly compared to the jumped-up little squirt she remembered from their school-days – and picked up a small black attaché case which had been parked against the armchair.

He moved purposefully towards the large Inglenook fireplace which dominated their sitting-room and asked to borrow some Floo Powder. Hermione informed him that they had, in fact, run out of Floo Powder, just yesterday morning.

'I hardly use the stuff when you're not around,' she explained to Ron.

Draco looked crestfallen, Hermione noted. Even a little agitated. He clicked open his attaché case and rummaged frantically through its contents.

'Blast it,' he hissed under his breath. 'I thought I'd packed a spare Portkey.'

He snapped shut the attaché case and headed instead for the front door.

Ron appeared to have recovered from his earlier comparative enthusiasm for Draco's company, and was only too glad, it seemed, to usher Draco outside. He nodded tersely, and in his best Auror's voice, ensured Draco that he would investigate the matter in hand thoroughly.

'Thanks for the tea,' Draco muttered, chiefly preoccupied with tightly buttoning-up his long, grey raincoat.

His eyes momentarily flicked to Hermione who was standing directly behind her husband.

She instantly prickled with anxiety.

There was something unfathomable in his forlorn, grey expression which disturbed her greatly.

The night had deteriorated since Hermione's return home. Steady drizzle fogged the air and a stiff breeze was furiously whipping the tops of the elm trees which bordered their property.

Draco stepped outside, and with a brusque farewell, he headed off, at some speed, down the lane, turning left towards the village. His long, lean figure, crowned by his trademark silver hair, luminous in the darkness, was soon swallowed up into the shadows.

'Odd chap,' Ron murmured, staring after Draco's fading form with a bemused expression on his face. 'Why didn't he just Apparate?'

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"EXTREME WAYS" by MOBY**

Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work. Any company or place names cited in this story are being used in an entirely fictitious setting, and do not, in any shape or form, reflect on any possible, coincidental real-life counterparts.

9


	2. Elsinore

_**Tea at Malfoy Manor and some disturbing news. Meanwhile Hermione's suspicions of Draco Malfoy grow...**_

**2. Elsinore**

Hermione had always hated injections. Whether this meant compulsory immunisations at primary school, or that particularly foolish day in her teens, when she had accompanied her Mum to give blood at the local church hall of St Mary's, it amounted to the same thing... needles... nausea... blood.

A hot, prickling perspiration peppered her forehead. Even now, after so many years of enduring many truly terrifying experiences working with Harry against the dark deeds of Voldemort and his followers, the mere memory of that ill-spent morning at St Mary's still sent her stomach into a flutter of nerves - especially when, as now, she was waiting for a blood test.

It was silly, really. Blood tests at St Mungo's were virtually pain-free thanks to specially-honed, analgesic wands. There wasn't a needle in sight. Yet, Hermione was unable to suppress the familiar frisson of fear which jolted through her.

She had brought Eoin Grumigen's controversial new biography of Albus Dumbledore, _The Dithering Diplomat_, to the clinic as a suitable distraction. But it was no use. Her eyes simply skimmed over the words before her. Her mind wandered.

She couldn't help but recall, with uncomfortable clarity, the events of that morning at St Mary's. The dark, jellied warmth which had overwhelmed her moments before passing out…

She had collapsed onto the wooden tiled floor, which smelt of pine-odoured cleaning fluids and sawdust. Her mother had knelt beside her, cradling her head in her arms. 'There, there, my darling,' she'd said, softly stroking her daughter's hair. 'All over, pet. It's all over. Don't you worry.'

'You alright, love?' came a friendly voice close to her ear.

Hermione nodded, forcing a smile for the benefit of the round-faced mediwitch who was busy rolling up the sleeve of her cream, silk blouse and gently prodding her veins with practiced fingers, seeking out the sweet spot where the blood flowed fastest.

There was no point in looking as scared as she felt, Hermione thought desperately.

No point in panicking. No point at all.

She sighed, suddenly overcome by a strangely wistful, almost painful pang of yearning for her mother's company, for a glimpse of her kind, reassuring face.

Where was she now? What would she be doing? Probably soothing a scared child about to have their first filling, or chatting to her receptionist Kate in the cramped back office of her practice surgery over a hot cup of tea and a Rich Tea biscuit.

If it wasn't so hellish at work (remarkably even _more_ hellish than usual), she'd happily skip an hour or two, she thought. Escape to Muggle London! Take the tube or jump on a bus to travel the long, meandering journey through the heavy London traffic to Parsons Green, where her parents still practiced dentistry and lived in a tall, red-brick, semi-detached house, with mock Tudor frontage and a Volvo Estate in the drive.

It was another life. Another world, but one that seemed to be blurring at the edges. Fading fast, like a creased old photograph stuffed in between the cellophane display pages of a photo album.

She sensed it was the same for her parents, too.

During the Second War against the Dark Lord, Hermione's parents had moved to Australia for their safekeeping. As one of Harry's closest friends, Hermione, and those she loved, had been a key target for Voldemort and his murderous Death Eaters.

Even though Hermione had assiduously restored her parents' modified memories – it had been best to protect them, to shield their true identities, by all magical means possible – she could still feel a difference in them. Or rather, a difference between them and her. Almost as though they were _performing_ their relationship, their connection, rather than simply _being_.

That was why she sometimes missed her mother so very, very badly. She almost felt she didn't have one any more; not a _real_ one, at any rate. Sadly, the feeling had worsened considerably once she had become a mother herself.

Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't immediately notice that the round-faced mediwitch had finished drawing blood from her arm and was already decanting the blood into small, silver vials.

'Mediwizard Alcock will examine these later,' she said. 'I imagine he'll want to speak with you about the results.'

'He can Floo me at work,' Hermione said, again with a forced smile. She knew she was perfectly fit and well. But there was always that lingering doubt. Just what if…?

And it wasn't as though these blood tests were diagnostic, either.

Hermione had agreed to take part in an ongoing Pan-European trial, testing Muggleborns who displayed traits peculiar to 'Epsilon' blood types. Epsilons were the rarest blood type in the Magical world and were associated with particularly impressive magical powers. The ability to deploy wandless magic, for example, was almost solely Epsilon.

And, to the unbridled joy of the band of bigots who continued to spew their doctrines of anti-Muggle hatred, Epsilons were almost always Purebloods, with a few particularly powerful Half-bloods too, for good measure.

Hermione's exalted magical achievements had ensured she was invited onto this trial.

She hadn't been sure at first, wondering if she was, in fact, condoning blood-based stereotypes by allowing herself to be tested.

It was Ginny Potter who had talked her into it, reminding her that the rationale behind the trial was to prove the Purebloods wrong, to show that blood type was actually _irrelevant_ to magical powers.

She also thought these tests might make for an interesting opening gambit in her meeting with Tony Goldstein, which was due to take place later that day. She knew his academic field of expertise was Magical Haematology. Padma had proudly told her how Tony had published extensively on the magical properties of the Epsilon allele versus the Alpha, Beta and Gamma alleles, which were the most common blood types found amongst the wizarding population. It was an area Hermione knew relatively little about – although she felt sure it must be fascinating, if a little daunting – so she was glad to at least have something to talk about which might engage his interest.

After all, she had promised Ron, against her own better judgment of course, that she would subtly plug Tony for information on his company, Arcana, and, in particular, his research lab's reclusive benefactor, Jeroboam. It therefore seemed only fair to exhibit a genuine interest in his actual work.

XXX

Padma was waiting in the foyer at St Mungo's, armed with a sheaf of papers and a quill.

'These need signing _immediately_,' she said breathlessly, thrusting the papers into Hermione's arms. 'Mr Jinks has been in the office all morning. He says there have been complaints that we aren't passing on case files to the appropriate departments quickly enough, that we are holding up crucial Ministry business.'

'I can't sign these here,' Hermione said, suddenly flustered. 'We'll be back in the office later; two hours at most. Can't they wait?'

Padma shook her head vehemently. 'Mr Jinks _insisted_.'

'Insisted! Who the hell does he think he is?'

Hermione flipped open her briefcase and with a deft tap of her wand, expanded its interior to accommodate the thick wad of reports, contracts and copious unapproved minutes of departmental meetings that Padma had brought with her.

'Anyway, I thought you were taking me to lunch today, with Tony?' she added in brighter tones. 'I've been looking forward to it all morning.'

'He had to cancel,' Padma said apologetically. 'Work's gone crazy.'

'How very inconvenient,' Hermione said grumpily, all too aware of the sharp look her colleague was giving her. After all, Hermione had a long-standing reputation as a workaholic who expected similarly exacting standards from others. Merely _eating_ lunch was deemed a special occasion at The Department for Magical Law Enforcement, let alone eating out.

'Well, it suited _me_ just fine,' Padma said in brittle tones, defensive of her boyfriend. '_I_ was about to cancel too.'

'Whatever for?'

'I'm surprised you have to ask!' Padma huffed. 'Mr Jinks, of course.'

XXX

'Can't you just owl him yourself? Ask him over for supper one night?' Ron asked that evening, as they both brushed their teeth in their en-suite bathroom in readiness for bed. 'We don't think Padma's going to be much use to us, and frankly, we'd rather keep this as low-key as possible. The fewer folks who know what we're doing the better.'

Ron spat a glob of toothpaste into the washbasin; it landed close to the rim of the white china bowl. A trail of saliva trickled slowly and inexorably down the side of the bowl towards the plughole. He then wiped his mouth with a hand-towel.

'I can't invite Tony Goldstein without Padma,' Hermione explained, grimacing at her husband's slovenly habits as she attempted to brush a thickly knotted tangle from her hair before giving up and straightening her curled tresses with a swish of her wand. 'It would look odd if I saw him alone.'

'Rubbish,' Ron scoffed. 'You know him from school. You're old friends.'

Ron eased himself into their king-size bed, hugging their goose-down duvet so tightly that Hermione's half of the bed was left completely uncovered.

Hermione frowned.

She sidled onto the bed next to him and tugged defiantly at the duvet until it had shifted a few inches towards her.

'The thing is, Ron, I don't know Tony _that_ well. Certainly not well enough to arrange to see him without Padma, at any rate. And I can't think up a work-related excuse to visit Arcana.'

The truth was, of course, other than the failed lunch with Padma, Hermione hadn't put much thought to this at all. She simply didn't have time. Work had been frenetic, while home life had been even more hectic than usual, in the light of Hugo's near-expulsion from school for 'accidentally' setting ablaze a teacher's umbrella. And she really didn't have the enthusiasm to investigate the supposedly evil machinations of a big, bad wizard she hadn't even met or had any reason to suspect of dark dealings – let alone trying to develop an anti-Muggle weapon of mass destruction. Her primary interest in the matter was making sure Ron wasn't doing anything too foolish and getting himself caught up in something he shouldn't.

Ron looked perplexed. 'Why can't you just take Tony out for lunch one day? You're a married woman. You're Padma's boss, for Merlin's sake. She's hardly going to think you're trying to get into her boyfriend's pants now, is she?'

'Of course not,' she said disdainfully. 'It's just a question of etiquette.'

'Etiquette? It'd just be lunch with an old friend while asking him a couple of questions about the bloke who funds his research. It's not exactly difficult, is it?'

'Then why don't _you_ do it?' Hermione snapped. 'You know him better than I do.'

'Bollocks. I hardly know the guy at all. A bit of a boring bastard, if you ask me. Always had his nose stuck in a book. _Crap_ at Quidditch.'

'Now that's plain nasty.'

'See. It's obvious you're better for the job. You're much more tolerant than I am.'

Too tolerant by far, Hermione thought crossly. She really should have knocked this harebrained scheme on the head the moment Draco Malfoy tried to recruit Ron.

'I'll see what I can do, Ron,' Hermione said wearily, if only to shut him up.

'You'd better,' Ron said sternly, pulling the duvet over his head. 'We've been invited to Malfoy Manor for tea tomorrow. _He_'ll be expecting some news.'

XXX

Hermione was still seething with her husband when they stepped out of the grand Inglenook fireplace into the palatial entrance hall at Malfoy Manor.

'I can't believe you agreed to this,' she hissed in low tones. 'Have you forgotten what this place means to me?'

Even though it had been fifteen years since they, along with Harry, had been snatched and brought here to be interrogated… how could Ron have forgotten the sound of her anguished cries as Draco's aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange, tortured her most horribly? Had he simply erased from his mind the terror they had suffered, incarcerated in the cellar beneath the drawing room… just feet away from where they were now standing?

Ron didn't have time to respond, however, even if he had wanted to. There was a sudden flurry of activity as a small troupe of house-elves, decked out in ill-fitting royal blue livery and weighed down with huge gold epaulettes, Apparated before them.

One of their number - the most curmudgeonly and authoritarian-looking of the bunch, Hermione thought – stepped forward. He extended a long, gnarled finger which he then pointed in a threatening manner at Ron's chest.

'Who are you? What are you doing here?' the house-elf demanded in a high-pitched, querulous tone.

Ron stepped backwards, colliding with the vast iron overhang of the Inglenook fireplace behind them, his cheeks ablaze with scarlet embarrassment and outrage.

'Your master, Mr Malfoy, invited us,' Ron cried, rubbing the back of his head where he had struck the fireplace.

'How else could we have passed safely through the wards?' Hermione reasoned, feeling genuine alarm at this odd turn of events.

She should have known it. This was a trap of some kind. Draco had set them up, the devious, little snake.

One glance at the angry, contorted expression on Ron's face told her he was thinking precisely the same thing.

'Yeah,' he blustered, swerving to avoid a second gnarly prod from the leading elf. 'If he hadn't invited us, we'd be chopped liver by now, wouldn't we?'

This made the elf pause for thought, and certainly the rigid, aggressive stance of his companions visibly wavered.

Ron fished frantically in a deep inside pocket of his gown, pulling out a silvery piece of parchment that was prominently crowned with the Malfoy crest. He pushed it towards the elf, who snatched at it. The elf momentarily closed his eyes, as if sensing the origins of the paper and its writer vibrate through his brown, leathery skin, before magicking the paper into thin air with a brisk flick of his bony wrist.

A sly, papery smile slowly spread across his face, and his formerly harsh glare softened into deference. Even his voice had lost its hard edge, assuming instead a cloying meekness.

'Kind Sir. Madam,' he said, with a respectful bow which his fellow elves immediately copied. 'Master will be along shortly.'

Hermione wasn't fooled for one moment by this little charade.

Sure, Draco had invited them, but he had _forgotten_ to show up himself.

'Let me escort you to the drawing room where you can await the Master in greater comfort,' the elf said in obsequious tones.

Hermione's throat constricted involuntarily at the thought of entering that same drawing room, which still haunted her dreams and darkest imaginings.

Ron looked a little green, and there was a pained look in his eye which clawed horribly at her insides. He _did _remember. Of course he did. How could she have been so selfish?

To her surprise, however, the elves hurried them away from the entrance hall at breakneck speed, past the drawing room's heavy, oak door, which appeared to have been magically sealed, judging by the gossamer-thin stream of white light which encircled the door frame.

They followed the head elf along a wide, wood-paneled corridor, lined with austere, mahogany or ebony framed portraits, all featuring the sharp-faced, aquiline features of former Malfoys.

The elf ushered them into a large, square room, dominated by a vast fire blazing furiously in a white marble fireplace.

Hermione wasn't sure if it was an effect of the heat generated by the flames or the consequence of a strangely pungent odour which suddenly assaulted her senses, but there was a distinctly shimmering, translucent quality to the scene before her, almost akin to a mirage on an empty road on a scorching summer's day or a soft-focus camera shot where the lens has been smeared with Vaseline.

An array of tall, slender white candles hovered majestically above them, presiding over three white sofas – deep and welcoming – facing the fireplace, and framing a low glass, rectangular table which supported a splendidly ornate silver samovar. A line of crystal tumblers, nestled inside silver filigree holders, sprang into view at the bidding of the head elf, who summoned their tea with a curt snap of his fingers.

He turned to Hermione and Ron, bowed deeply, then Disapparated.

'Bastard,' Ron grumbled.

'I didn't like him, either,' Hermione said stoutly.

'I meant fucking Draco Malfoy,' Ron said with a sneer, flinging himself onto one of the plush white sofas.

'Finally!' Hermione said triumphantly. 'Finally, you see sense. So can we just go home now? I've got a stack of paperwork to get through by tomorrow for this blasted audit, and this really _is _a waste of time. Surely you can see that?'

Ron cast her a sidelong glance.

Hermione's high spirits quickly faltered. She knew that look.

She should never have gloated. Ron was very sensitive to her 'always having to be right,' as he put it.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it again as the distinct sound of whispered conversation, and the soft, shushing noise of rapidly approaching, slippered feet on tiled flooring, alerted them to fresh arrivals.

Hermione could make out the calm contralto of Narcissa Malfoy, Draco's mother, and a similarly toned female voice, with a faint American accent, that she didn't recognise.

Much as a panicked 'Sssh' in the wings of a theatre has the power to be heard with undue force in a hushed auditorium, these whispered voices also seemed to be magnified by their own sense of unexpected melodrama.

'Did he say anything to you before he left?' the unknown voice asked sharply.

'Not a dickie bird,' Narcissa Malfoy replied. 'It's most peculiar. And to think, the _Weasleys,_ of all people.'

'Something's afoot, Narcissa, that's for sure.'

'Yes, it's most unlike him. Milton's sending an Owl to his club directly.'

Moments later, Narcissa Malfoy, flanked by a handsome woman of Amazonian proportions, with an impressive mane of pale gold hair, was shaking their hands with polite enthusiasm, greeting them rather as long-lost friends than the intruders they were clearly considered to be.

Hermione cast a swift appraising eye over Narcissa Malfoy. It had been many years since she had met her. Since Lucius's complete retirement from public life some years ago – it was claimed he was 'indisposed,' although his disappearance had sparked innumerable conspiracy theories, none of which had ever been confirmed or denied by the Malfoy family – sightings of Narcissa had become rare, exciting uncommon degrees of gossip-fuelled interest.

Years of semi-seclusion hadn't harmed her, Hermione thought. She was positively radiant, her silvery hair wound into an intricately coiffed chignon, and her lean, elegant figure was clad in a simple white, silk toga. The overall effect was calm, serene. Classical. The fingertips she extended in welcome were soft and cool to the touch.

Hermione sensed that Narcissa was similarly regarding_ her_ with that polite, slightly competitive gaze shared between women who haven't seen each other for a long time and are wondering if the other has piled on the pounds or developed an unattractive facial hair problem in the intervening period between their last interaction.

Hermione was mighty relieved that neither calamity, as no doubt someone like Narcissa Malfoy would view such an event, had occurred to her – not yet anyway. She was still relatively young-looking for her thirty-four years. A little curvier perhaps, compared to her youth, but that was to be expected after giving birth to two children.

To her surprise, Hermione sensed an even more penetrating stare from Narcissa's fair-haired companion.

'This is Sylvestra,' Narcissa said, stepping aside to allow Sylvestra to come forward.

Hermione noticed that Ron's eyes instantly lit up when Sylvestra squeezed his hand in friendly greeting.

Always a sucker for blondes, Hermione thought ruefully. Although she had to admit this Sylvestra was a particularly magnificent specimen.

But she was pretty darned sure that Sylvestra wasn't the name of Draco's wife. Or rather, his _second_ wife. Wife number one, Astoria Greengrass – a snooty little number, she recalled from their schooldays at Hogwarts – had famously run off with a Quidditch player from Brazil, even though her baby son was not yet out of nappies.

However, Hermione was the first to admit that she hadn't taken much interest, if any, in the personal affairs of Draco Malfoy since the Second War ended. He was someone she didn't care to think of.

And, with that in mind, his wife might well be Sylvestra, for all she knew.

She decided to be polite, _whoever _she was.

'Do sit down,' Narcissa said, gesturing towards the voluminous white sofas.

Hermione chose to sit as far away from the roaring fire as possible. She was already unbearably hot. Unfortunately, poor Ron wasn't so lucky, as he had already positioned himself on the sofa closest to the blaze. Moments later, he was throwing off his gown and loosening his shirt collar, and a puce flush of colour had suffused his face.

Narcissa sat directly opposite them, while Sylvestra seated herself in the middle of the sofa facing the fireplace and the long, glass table, on which the samovar was quietly steaming.

'Tea?' she asked, in a clear, bell-like voice.

Ron nodded, surreptitiously wiping a film of gleaming sweat from his face with the back of his sleeve.

'We take our tea black,' Narcissa stated flatly.

Ron was too preoccupied with his profuse perspiration issues to care, although Hermione knew this was anathema to a man who doggedly liked his tea strong, white, and excessively sweetened to a tooth-rotting degree.

Narcissa poured the tea and Sylvestra passed around the glasses.

'Draco should be here shortly,' Sylvestra said.

'He sent a message to say he was late,' Narcissa lied. 'I-I forget the precise nature of your business. It's been an extraordinarily busy day. Hasn't it, Sylvestra? But… if there's any way we can be of assistance?'

Ron shook his head vehemently. A little too vehemently, Hermione thought sourly. Really. The man had the subtlety of a bus.

'It's a work matter,' Hermione explained breezily.

'Oh. I see.'

Narcissa retreated from the rather tense, birdlike poise she had been holding, perched on the edge of the sofa, and relaxed, luxuriantly, into the sofa's capacious white cushions.

She stared pensively into the fire for a few short moments, as if thoroughly digesting this particular information. Hermione expected a barrage of follow-up questions, but instead, Narcissa smiled sweetly and chirruped, 'Well, my dears. Shall we have some entertainment while we wait? How about some music?'

'I guess so,' Ron said, a little nonplussed, sipping his piping hot tea. Hot steam rose from the glass and mingled with the rivulets of sweat now trickling down his cheeks.

Narcissa clapped her hands with almost childlike glee.

Instantly, the room was alive with loud strains of thumping, throbbing classical music - emanating, it seemed, from every direction.

'Isn't that marvelous?' Narcissa sighed. 'Brahms 4th.'

Then she stared directly at Hermione. 'But I guess you already knew that, didn't you?'

Luckily, Hermione _did _know. It was one of her mother's favourite symphonies. Even so, she couldn't help but wonder why Narcissa automatically presumed she was familiar with the piece.

Was it because she was Muggleborn? And Brahms, of course, was a Muggle composer.

Her suspicions were all but confirmed by Narcissa's next statement.

'To give credit where it's due, music is the one area of civilization where the Muggle population has truly excelled, don't you think?'

She cocked her head jauntily to one side and surveyed Hermione beadily.

Hermione flushed warmly. She wasn't sure if Narcissa was being deliberately rude or if this was an attempt to be nice, to make amends.

'I'm not so sure about that, Narcissa,' Sylvestra intoned. 'Don't forget, the Muggles have critical mass on their side.' She flashed a dazzling, bright smile at their guests. 'There's a lot more Muggles than wizards, aren't there?'

'Perhaps it's also about _training_,' Narcissa said. 'I don't recall any musical instruction at Hogwarts. Do you?'

'No, Mrs Malfoy. None at all,' Ron spluttered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

To Hermione's shame, Narcissa Malfoy appeared to wholly disregard Ron's contribution – not even deigning to look in his direction. Instead, her eyes remained fixed on Hermione.

'Do you play, Mrs Weasley?' she asked. She demurely sipped her tea, awaiting Hermione's reply.

'I-I used to,' Hermione said. 'I played the piano.'

'Ah! The pianoforte. How very lovely,' Narcissa breathed. 'Sylvestra plays too, don't you, dear?'

Sylvestra beamed in agreement.

'And Draco played awfully well when he was a child,' Narcissa continued. 'But he never had time to practice. He was always so very, very_ busy_.'

'Actually, Narcissa, he _does _still play from time to time,' Sylvestra said, a little too smugly for Narcissa's liking, Hermione thought with some amusement.

But Narcissa was having none of it. 'I think you'll find, Sylvestra, that Draco has all but given up. He told me so himself, just last year.'

'But I've heard him play since.'

'I very much doubt it.' Narcissa firmly pursed her lips and poured herself another glass of tea.

'He _does_ play. Believe me,' Sylvestra said emphatically.

Narcissa rolled her eyes in exasperation. 'Dearest Sylvestra. I haven't seen him play for a very long time. And I rather think I would know if he did. After all, this _is_ my house.'

By now, Sylvestra was bristling with indignation. 'For your information, Narcissa,' she said pointedly, 'he plays the piano in _her_ room.'

Narcissa's eyes flicked nervously to Sylvestra, and then to Hermione and Ron.

'Why don't we just ask him?' Ron said, looking over Narcissa's shoulder towards the open doorway behind her.

Draco was leaning nonchalantly against the doorpost, arms folded tightly against his chest. He looked thunderous.

'I _don't _play. I don't _like_ to play. And I certainly _won't_ be playing anymore,' he drawled, leveling a particularly furious look in Sylvestra's direction.

Sylvestra didn't seem to notice. Or if she did, she certainly didn't seem to care.

'Just as I thought! Come and have some tea, darling,' said Narcissa, pouring her son a glass of tea into which she spooned three teaspoons of a curious green powdery mixture, extracted from a Meissen China sugar-bowl.

'We have been entertaining your guests,' Narcissa said. 'Charming people,' she added with a sickly smile.

Draco cast Ron a withering look. 'Weasley. You're two days early,' he growled. 'I said _Thursday, _not Tuesday.'

Hermione suspected that Ron had blushed bright scarlet, but under his currently over-heated circumstances, any fresh facial coloration was rendered quite irrelevant.

He rummaged desperately – and unsuccessfully- for Draco's note, before remembering that the head elf had vanished it.

'It's as well, really, isn't it, Ron?' Hermione said. 'We have to be somewhere else anyway.'

She carefully placed her glass of tea on the table and was about to stand up when Draco sauntered into the room, collapsed onto the sofa next to his mother, and gestured to Hermione to stay put.

'Now that you're here, we might as well talk,' he said. He turned to his mother. 'And if you care to turn down that _blasted_ music, we might be able to hear ourselves think, as well.'

Narcissa's face darkened, although, with a click of her fingers, Brahms's soaring violins, dancing round and round, higher and higher, were instantly stilled.

'The problem with my son, Mrs Weasley,' she said with an air of confidentiality, 'is that he hasn't got a soul.'

Hermione stifled a giggle, amused at Draco's stricken expression.

'Ignore my beloved _Mater_,' he said sardonically. 'She's clearly having one of her little _episodes_.'

'I am doing no such thing!' Narcissa retorted. 'Come on, Sylvestra. Let's leave these people to their ever so important _business_,' she added, with an injured sniff.

She rose to her feet and beckoned to Sylvestra.

Sylvestra blithely shrugged her shoulders, prompting her hair to ripple sensuously down her back in harmony with her movements.

Both ladies glided elegantly out of the drawing room, leaving two out of three of the room's occupants in slightly stunned silence.

The silence continued for some time, as all ears strained to hear the last of Narcissa and her companion, ensuring they had quit the vicinity.

Draco leaned closer.

'There's been another attack,' he said bluntly.

'An attack?' Ron exclaimed. 'Of Dark Flux? Are you sure?'

Draco nodded.

'How come we know nothing about it?' Hermione demanded. 'I've got high-level clearance at the Ministry, and Ron's an Auror. Section A. He'd be the first to know.'

Draco hadn't actually looked directly at her to properly acknowledge her presence since his arrival, and even now, to Hermione's profound irritation, he allowed his gaze to switch from Ron to herself for the briefest of moments only.

'I have sources,' he said, with a dismissive, almost Gallic shrug.

Hermione didn't want to let him off that lightly.

'What sources?' she asked incredulously. 'The slightest inkling of Dark Flux and it would be all over the _Daily Prophet_.'

Draco flipped open the Meissen China sugar bowl, and dipped the little finger of his left hand into the mound of green granulated powder skulking inside.

'Not to mention the Muggle newspapers and TV reports. A number of unexplained deaths in a single community is bound to make the headlines,' Hermione continued. 'It'd be big news.'

'But it _was_ on the news,' Draco said silkily.

To Hermione's disgust, he licked the end of his finger, before plunging it back into the sugar bowl.

'You just didn't notice,' he said wearily. He then tasted the fine green powder that coated his moist fingertip.

Only now did he allow his eyes to glance in her direction.

Hermione was momentarily transfixed, caught between a strange, unwanted, almost morbid fascination, mixed with heartfelt dislike.

Everything about his manner reeked of patronising disdain and facetious superiority. He loathed her like she loathed him. And he was reveling in her discomfort.

Hermione silently boiled with anger.

Draco swiftly returned his full attention to Ron, who proved a rapt audience for what he had to say.

'The outbreak was reported in South America,' Draco said in clipped, efficient tones. 'A small village, a _pueblo,_ in Paraguay. I think we should go there; take a look at what's been going on.'

'What happened?' Ron asked.

'Sudden cataclysmic death toll. Seven Muggles in all. The usual symptoms. Bluish lips, ghostly pallor, rolled-back eyes.'

Hermione shuddered. 'Sounds like zombies. Sorry… 'That was a little distasteful.'

Draco continued. 'Eyewitness accounts also described a rash on the bodies of the victims, which is unmistakably related to Dark Flux.'

'I've _never_ heard of a rash connected to Dark Flux,' Hermione said.

'What was the official _Muggle_ explanation?' Ron asked. Hermione couldn't help but notice that he sneered a little at 'Muggle.' Or at least she thought he did.

Maybe she'd imagined it. She certainly hoped so.

'Contaminated water,' Draco said. 'The village shared a single water supply. A well.'

'How can you be so sure that it _wasn't_ the well?' Hermione asked.

'Like I said, Mrs Weasley, I have my sources,' Draco said, this time fixing the full force of his bleached, grey gaze in her direction.

Hermione gritted her teeth, refusing to flinch from the unguarded threat she had momentarily sensed in his stare.

There was more to this business. Much, much more. And she didn't trust Draco Malfoy one jot.

For Ron's sake, she had to get to the bottom of this.

'This _rash_. What was it like?'

Draco shrugged. 'Pink, mottled, blue, green? I don't know to be honest.'

'But isn't it _important, _Malfoy? I mean, Dark Flux has not commonly been associated with a rash, which means this might not be Dark Flux at all! Your sources might be sending you on a wild goose chase.'

Draco ran his long, pale fingers through his surprisingly unkempt, silvery hair, and smiled - a crooked, smug little smile, which Hermione itched to smack from his face.

'Well, it won't just be me, will it?' he snorted. 'Ron's coming too. Aren't you, Ron?'

Ron looked a little startled at this information. 'I am?'

'Next week. I've got a few business matters to attend to first in that part of the world. But once that's out of the way...'

'You can't expect Ron to _hang around_ while you conduct your dirty dealings!' Hermione scoffed.

'I'd hardly call Herb Healing business, _dirty dealings_,' Draco countered.

'He's needed at home.'

'He's an_ Auror_, Mrs Weasley. Dangerous missions is what they do.'

Dangerous? Did he say dangerous?

But before either Hermione or Ron had a chance to question Draco further, the silver-haired wizard had already unfurled his lean frame from the plush cushions of the sofa and was moving towards the doorway – a clear indicator that their meeting was over.

'In any case, Mrs Weasley,' Draco said, with a supercilious smile, 'I've no doubt you'll be far too busy rooting out insider information on Mr Jeroboam to even notice that Ron has gone.'

'That's enough, Malfoy!' Ron barked, levering himself clumsily off the sofa. 'You've no right to speak to my wife in that tone.'

'He's just a prat, Ron,' Hermione sighed. 'Ignore him.'

She rapidly made for the exit, but Draco was blocking her path, hands on hips.

'Look, Mrs Weasley, Ron,' he said in a far more diplomatic tone than his cocky stance implied. 'Okay, so we have history. We… we don't particularly like each other.'

'Too right,' Ron mumbled.

'Which means this isn't going to be _easy_ for any of us,' Draco continued. 'But wouldn't it be better if we just put old antipathies aside? Just this once? Don't forget, we're dealing here with a madman.'

Sure, Hermione thought moodily. But was Jeroboam the madman they should be fearing? Or was it the pale-faced bigot with the uncertain glint in his eye who was standing directly before her?

'We'll try to get along,' Ron conceded, with uncharacteristic humility. 'Hermione's already working on Tony Goldstein, aren't you?'

'Actually, no,' Hermione said truthfully. 'He cancelled our lunch meeting.'

'Why didn't you say so?' Draco said. 'That can only mean one thing…'

'Yes. He had too much work to do,' Hermione said snidely, securing the fasteners at the collar of her gown in readiness, she hoped, for a speedy departure. 'It happens to the best of us, you know.'

'Hold on. This case of Zametsky Effect was recorded this weekend, wasn't it?' Ron asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

'Oh come on, Ron!' Hermione sighed. 'Tony had nothing to do with it.'

'While Jeroboam's his paymaster, nothing can be ruled out,' Draco said darkly.

Ron agreed. 'Exactly. It makes sense that Jeroboam would corral _all_ his forces – research facilities included – if there had been a manifestation of Dark Flux. Let's not forget, his primary aim is to get a hold of this stuff and to weaponise it.'

'I haven't forgotten, Ron,' Hermione said blithely, pushing past Draco and into the refreshing cool air of the gloomy corridor. 'I'll get onto it,' she added, already trotting away from the drawing room, back to the entrance hall. Appeasement and escape was her preferred tactic at this juncture.

Ron and Draco followed soon after, making, what felt to Hermione, like slow, funereal progress. They were talking together in quiet, low tones.

Hermione waited impatiently by the Inglenook fireplace, desperate to leave as soon as she could. She curiously eyed a large wooden barrel, filled to the brim with Floo powder. It seemed a little excessive. Perhaps the Malfoys were addicted to Floo travel? Some of the powder had already been decanted into a circle of small, portable silver vessels, arranged in a floral pattern on a side-table, next to the fireplace.

Her eyes drifted upwards, trailing the curved length of a vast staircase, its wooden balustrades freshly polished and gleaming in the light afforded by an ornate, round window, poised high above the atrium.

The staircase led to a spacious landing with vivid red walls, adorned with gilt-framed paintings depicting gently bucolic, pastoral scenes and the occasional colourful portrait. One half of the landing was plushly carpeted and brightly lit, leading East towards what looked like the family apartments. A left turn, however, moved away from the wide, welcoming landing, narrowing into a gloomier passage and snaking westwards.

Hermione couldn't help but wonder if the West Wing was where the _true _master of Malfoy Manor resided, victim to some mystery illness; or, as some rumours would have it, kept under lock and key for his own well being and those around him. It was insinuated that he had finally run mad with guilt, sorrow and regret for his former dark deeds and the shame he had inflicted on the Malfoy family.

Hermione's ruminations were disturbed by the opening of a door behind her, ranged opposite the old drawing room. She was wondering how she hadn't noticed this door before, when Narcissa Malfoy hastened forwards, arms outstretched and Sylvestra close behind.

'Mrs Weasley! Thank Merlin you're still here!' she gushed rather uncharacteristically. 'I've had a marvelous idea!'

Hermione stood stock-still. She had a very bad feeling about this.

'It's so very rare I meet anyone else who shares my appreciation of truly _wonderful _music. I have tickets for the Berlin Philharmonic this Friday. Sylvestra's otherwise engaged, and Draco's away on business, so would _you_ accompany me instead?'

The slight quaver of insecurity in Narcissa's voice shocked Hermione into nodding her assent.

'Of course, Mrs Malfoy. That sounds lovely.'

But even as she spoke, a vague sense of dread crept over her – largely based on the briefest of glances exchanged between Narcissa and her son, who had finally arrived at the fireplace with Ron, and was now standing directly behind her. In that tiniest of moments, _something_ had been communicated, promptly vanquished by Narcissa's effusive expressions of joy and gratitude.

They arranged to meet in Berlin, seeing as Hermione had a departmental meeting to chair until at least six o'clock. Narcissa informed her that a special Portkey station was being set up at Widford Hill in Oxfordshire, as the concert was bound to be a tremendously popular event. She knew at least half of the Southern Counties branch of the Slytherin Women's Institute had already purchased tickets, so it was set to be a _fabulous_ evening's entertainment.

'Shall we meet at half past six?' Narcissa asked.

'Sure,' Hermione agreed, feeling a little queasy at the prospect.

Throughout this exchange, Draco stood in silence, an inscrutable, even slightly bored look on his face.

'Come on, Ron,' Hermione said, tugging at her husband's sleeve.

'I'll be in touch,' Draco said crisply, before turning his back on the party and walking quickly away.

XXX

Ron just didn't get it, even though Hermione explained her misgivings about working on this investigation with Draco – and indeed _any_ association with the Malfoys - over and over again as they walked back from St Botolph's Primary School in Ottery St Catchpole, where they had just dropped off Rose and Hugo.

As far as Ron was concerned, nothing major seemed amiss. Sure, Draco was an irritating little shit, but the Malfoys had been surprisingly pleasant, all considered, and as for Narcissa? Well, she was a little kooky perhaps, but what else would you expect of someone who had lived with Lucius and Draco all these years?

'But, Ron, don't you think it's a tad strange that she invited me to this concert on Friday, claiming _loneliness_, when it sounds like half of Slytherin house is already going? I feel I've been roped into this under false pretences!' Hermione complained.

'Blimey, Hermione! You really are paranoid, aren't you?' Ron cackled.

'No, Ron. There's something wrong. Something… off,' Hermione said, thrusting her gloved hands into the deep pockets of her duffel coat in an effort to keep warm on what was a particularly cold, autumn morning.

'She never said she was lonely,' Ron muttered, lagging behind as he kicked mounds of dry, brown leaves. 'Just that Sylvestra couldn't make it.'

'And that's strange too, don't you think?'

'What's strange?'

'Sylvestra,' Hermione said, waiting impatiently for Ron to catch up. 'Who is she?'

'Dunno,' Ron shrugged. Then, after a moment's thought, 'She's not Draco's wife, that's for sure.'

'You've met her?' Hermione was burning with curiosity.

'A couple of times.'

'When? Where? What was she like?'

'Nice enough, I think. Too nice for _him_. But I don't really remember,' Ron said in a casual tone, which never failed to infuriate his wife.

'And you're sure she's not _Sylvestra_?'

Ron threw her a puzzled look. 'Quite sure, Hermione. I'm not blind, you know!'

'So, who is she?' Hermione repeated.

'Who? The wife or Sylvestra?'

'Sylvestra! And the wife. Both of them.'

Ron shook his head in exasperation. 'You've lost me now.'

'What a surprise,' Hermione mumbled under her breath.

They had reached their cottage on the outskirts of the village. Ron pretended to rummage for his key, for the sake of random passers-by, and then subtly flicked his wand, which was poking out from his coat-sleeve, whispering a brusque _Alohamora_. He nudged the door open and stepped inside.

Hermione followed, hanging up her duffle coat, hat, scarf and gloves by the door.

She was running late. She'd have to Apparate to work.

'Maybe they're lovers?' Ron said suddenly, raising his eyebrows saucily.

'Sylvestra and Draco?' Hermione shrilled.

'No, no! Sylvestra and _Narcissa_.' Ron's eyes glinted wickedly at the thought – a little too wickedly, Hermione thought. He was enjoying himself far too much for her liking.

'Really, Ronald. You have a mind like a drain,' she tutted.

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"BRICK BY BORING BRICK" by PARAMORE**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Thanks to my betas Apurva, Lupinswolfie & Lou.

9


	3. Her Last Stand

_**How can Hermione expose Draco's lies? How can she save Ron from making the greatest mistake of his life? But then a surprising turn of events threatens to turn Hermione's life upside down... **_

**3. Her Last Stand**

Hermione had all but given up on trying to convince Ron that throwing his lot in with the likes of Draco Malfoy posed a very high risk to his career and reputation.

Ron didn't seem to care. He'd made up his mind, and that was that.

It worried her deeply. What was driving Ron to such desperate measures? Had his life really become so stale and tired? At just thirty-three, he was far too young to be having a mid-life crisis. Did he need saving from himself?

This question had often loomed over Hermione during the last week. She had even wondered if it was worthwhile staging an intervention of some kind; enlisting his family and friends to talk some sense into him. She was sure Molly could stage a sufficiently convincing heart attack if all else failed. But she doubted Ron would ever forgive her the humiliation.

Or should she simply support him?

Until now, this had become her primary approach to a very thorny problem. But their visit to Malfoy Manor had only served to boost her very real misgivings about the entire venture; most particularly, this harebrained notion that Ron and Draco should travel to _Paraguay_ of all places.

Later that afternoon, Hermione spotted Draco at the Ministry of Magic. He was in the public atrium, speaking with Auror Tom Bennet. Their conversation seemed quite amicable. More like two old friends… And yet Draco had claimed that the Aurors were 'hounding' him and 'baying for his blood' – and yet here he was, exchanging jokes with one of the most hard-ass Aurors in the business. It had all been an outright lie.

She decided then to change her tactics. She simply couldn't allow that conniving little creep to take her husband down. She had been right all along to suspect his true motives in approaching Ron – one of his oldest enemies - with his dark accusations about Jeroboam.

What other lies had he told?

Discrediting Malfoy's claims and character with some _hard evidence_ shouldn't be too difficult, she reasoned. Ron couldn't ignore the facts, surely?

And if she could achieve this by Friday, just a couple of days away, then she could hopefully wriggle out of her 'date' with Narcissa Malfoy as well.

XXX

As soon as Hermione arrived at her desk, she paid a quick visit to the Auror's Record Office, which was on the same floor as her own, to confirm that Auror Bennet worked in Section B - Fraud and Finance.

Bennet was described as Draco's main 'handler' – which seemed a little informal for an official Ministry record, Hermione felt.

Despite her rising status as one of the leading luminaries in the Legal Prosecution Service of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she wasn't allowed to access any further information about Bennet's _ongoing_ cases. Still, she was pretty certain that Ron could. And she might try to engineer a friendly chat with Auror Bennet.

It would be interesting to find out Draco's purported crimes, she mused. Although, _too many_ crimes, would potentially support Draco's argument that no Auror would ever take him seriously if he accused a well-respected wizard like Jeroboam of plotting a major terrorist catastrophe.

What else? Hermione whipped out a quill and a piece of scrap parchment. On the left hand side, she jotted down a list of questions she had concerning Draco's credibility, while on the right hand side, she listed her options in finding answers to these questions. Then, she'd present it to Ron as a 'dossier of truth.'

Getting people to express their undying hatred for the man would be almost too easy, Hermione thought gleefully.

That dealt with Draco.

But more importantly perhaps, what about Draco's accusations? What about his claim that Jeroboam was seeking to find and weaponise Dark Flux? If true, of course, this was terrifying and needed immediate attention from Section A. But how could she prove it?

Indeed. How could she _disprove_ it?

She had to learn more about Jeroboam himself, to see if he was fishy. She tried to ignore the voice in her head that reminded her that this was precisely what Draco Malfoy had _wanted_ her to do in the first place. Obtaining a background check probably wouldn't be difficult. She could even floo Harry at the Aurors' Office in Paris for any information_ they_ might have.

Thinking of Harry, more Ginny really, Hermione realized she had to hand, an invaluable eyewitness account of exactly what happened when an outbreak of Dark Flux struck a neighbourhood. Ginny had been more exposed than Harry to this particular incident, which had killed two Muggleborn witches and three Muggles on the street in Paris where the Potters were living. Harry had been away on an assignment leaving Ginny alone - terrified and distraught by the events unfolding around her. This was hardly surprising as she had been so close to term with Lily. The whole experience had prompted an early return to England for the family, which had pleased Ron to no end.

Strange how things worked out, though. The Paris office, which was the centre for European Auror Co-operative Ventures, had been so mortified by the great Harry Potter's hasty departure; they had offered him an even better job with a higher status and import than his role in the UK, more perks, a very nice apartment, and a very fat pay cheque to boot. Harry had finally caved and moved the family back to Paris earlier this year. And now Ginny couldn't be happier, or richer, as Ron so frequently liked to point out.

Thinking back to the Dark Flux outbreaks… Draco had said there were many more incidents than she thought. Exactly how did he know this? Was it worth cross-referencing Muggle news coverage with _Daily Prophet_ reports over a period of time, possibly the last five years? It might be time-consuming, even for _her _fabled research skills. Still, it was worth a shot. Particularly if Ron could then cross-check Draco's claims with suspected cases. That might be a sure-fire way to catch Draco out.

She chewed the end of her quill thoughtfully, half-watching Padma battle a thick wad of case reports back into their relevant folder.

Dark Flux. Dark Flux. What else could she prove wrong?

Draco had claimed Dark Flux wasn't listed anymore as a Verifiable Imponderable. Now _that_ she found very hard to believe. If it was _off_ the list, that made it fair game for funded research from any quarter. Even if it _could_ be rationalised and understood as a phenomenon, which was unlikely, surely Dark Flux would be far too dangerous a substance to actually work with? No Ministry official in their right mind would endorse such a move. She could check that one out pretty much straight away.

Another nail in Draco's coffin…

She was back to Draco himself. Considering his lesser importance in the scheme of things, her questions regarding _him_ were much more extensive, which didn't feel right somehow. In fact, some of them just felt plain _nosy._

For example, was it really relevant that Lucius Malfoy hadn't stepped out of Malfoy Manor for four years? It was intriguing, but it hardly reflected on Draco's character – unless of course he'd _murdered_ him, and squirreled his body under the floorboards – but one thing Hermione felt sure about when it came to Draco was that he was no killer. And even if he _had_ killed his father, (which she knew he hadn't, he idolised the prig), that would hardly wreck his credibility in Ron's eyes. Ron possibly hated Lucius even more than he hated Draco.

Then there was the wife. Or _wives. _Both of whom appeared to have done a flit. Astoria's running off with her Brazilian quidditch player, Feliu, had been a cause for hilarity some years ago. So much so, Hermione remembered Harry actually getting _defensive_ of Draco… which had been a bizarre turn of events.

Hermione knew absolutely nothing about Draco's _second_ wife, except for the fact that she was very absent, and according to Ron, had been so for a very long time. And of course, that glamorous Sylvestra creature was currently installed in Draco's house, which might explain a few things, but this was the sort of stuff _Witch Weekly_ was made of. And she _never_ read Witch Weekly or garbage like it. And really, when she thought about it, it had no bearing whatsoever on the case against Draco Malfoy that she was planning to compile for Ron.

On the contrary. Multiple wives and a live-in lover? Salacious scandal and _bonhomie_ with his investigating officer? Not to mention he was part owner of a Quidditch team.

Ron would be on that plane to Paraguay in no time.

Still. She had to start somewhere.

Hermione looked over to Padma who _did_ read Witch Weekly – under her desk when she thought nobody was looking – and wondered if she had time for a coffee.

XXX

Trying to talk to Padma about anything beyond the pernicious Mr Jinks was proving something of an ordeal, Hermione realized.

The girl was obsessed. Or maybe _possessed_, judging by her hysterical tone and frantic arm waving whenever she recounted yet another outrageous demand on her time and patience. Hermione was at least thankful, for Padma's sake, that they were the only customers, huddled at a corner table in a little Muggle coffee shop located close to the Ministry of Magic – far from any eavesdroppers.

She aimlessly stirred her tepid black coffee. Frankly, she was unable to dredge up the sort of blind hatred Padma clearly felt for Jinks. Yes, yes, she had the same memos piled high on her in-tray. But really, Jinks was a toothless tiger. A busybody auditor. A bureaucratic rubber stamp.

This audit, Hermione assumed, was all part of the Ministry's much-hailed 'New Brooms' campaign - effectively a shake-up and restructuring of each and every department - which had come into effect when the new Minister for Magic, Silas Witchell, had been instated in February that year.

They simply had to suffer Mr Jinks's unwanted attentions and complaints just a little longer, Hermione felt, and then he'd move on.

She had much more pressing concerns to deal with now.

'Padma,' she interrupted sharply, 'I'm looking for some background information.'

Padma halted her tirade, blinking rapidly as though pulled unexpectedly from a deep trance.

'About Draco Malfoy,' Hermione said, keeping her voice as cool and steady as possible. She wanted this to sound professional.

Padma screwed up her nose in disgust, looking like she'd just discovered a dead fly floating in her coffee. 'That prick,' she snorted. 'What could you possibly want to know?'

Hermione cradled her coffee pensively. How should she approach this? She was used to being pretty blunt these days. But she didn't want anybody learning about Ron's nutty dealings with the guy, which made this awkward.

'I've – I've got a friend who's interested in working with him. For Herb Healing.'

Padma looked relieved. 'Phew. I thought you were going to say you had a friend who wanted to _date_ him.'

'That would be a tad difficult, wouldn't it? He's married.'

'So he says. Have _you_ met his wife?'

'No… but Ron says he has.'

'When? Where?'

'He couldn't remember.'

'See?' Padma said smugly. 'Nobody ever does. A bit odd that, don't you think?'

'A little,' Hermione agreed. She signaled to the passing waitress for a top-up of her coffee. 'Maybe she's not particularly memorable?'

Padma snorted with loud laughter, surprising the young waitress who nearly dropped the hot, steaming coffee pot she was carrying to their table.

'Did you ever meet Astoria? Not exactly a shrinking violet.'

'Maybe his tastes have changed?'

'Hardly. There was a string of witches after Astoria. All identi-kit. Same blond hair. Same _enhancements_. Same loud, raucous personality. I used to work with one actually. At Arcana.'

_Arcana_. Now this was good, thought Hermione. A neat little segue from Malfoy's chequered love life to Padma's old boss. The mysterious Jeroboam.

'She used to talk non-stop about everyone and everything. Believe me, I knew more about Draco Malfoy than I _ever_ wanted to know!' Padma continued. 'She hates him now of course.'

Hermione knew she should move the conversation directly to Jeroboam while she had the chance, but burning, or _human_ curiosity as she liked to think of it, was getting the better of her.

'Why's that then?'

Padma looked puzzled. 'Why does she hate him? I can hardly believe _you_ just asked me that.' She pondered a moment. 'It was another girl. A blond and beautiful American. Seemed good chums with the family. I met her at a work do.'

_Sylvestra_. It had to be. And yes… there had been a slight American twang to her voice when Hermione thought about it. At a guess, she'd been schooled in Europe.

'This was still when you worked at Arcana?'

'Oh yes. About the time the Malfoys were finally declared bankrupt.'

'_Bankrupt_? Are you sure?' Hermione asked, incredulous. How had she missed _that _golden nugget of news?

Padma nodded. 'Absolutely. I hate to admit it, but Draco's done well to turn things around, so if your friend's thinking about a job at Herb Healing, they could do a lot worse, in my opinion. Anyway, this girl's father became a big investor in the company, so I figured it was more a relationship of convenience than anything else... Or so I told poor Agatha. She was pretty cut up over it all.'

That sounded typically like Malfoy, Hermione thought. Thinking he was onto bigger, better things and not caring who he hurt to get there.

'Anyway, Agatha's moved on.' Padma grinned. 'She's now the gossip columnist at the _Daily Prophet_.'

'You mean, Agatha Thrussington?'

'The one and only. Bit of a _faux pas_ that, from Draco, don't you think?'

Hermione laughed, all the while thinking: Arcana, Jeroboam, Arcana. She had to switch topics. Padma had already checked her watch twice since they sat down.

Lucky Padma was a chatter-box.

'Mind you, I kind of miss all her silly tittle-tattle sometimes. Our office is so deadly serious, don't you think?'

'So do you miss working at Arcana then?' Hermione asked, a little miffed.

Padma grimaced. 'Not really. It had its moments and some decent folks worked there. I was stuck doing admin for the lab's legal department, which wasn't too thrilling. All pretty standard stuff really: Contracts, patents, waivers. Tony _loves_ it there. Says he has the best lab facilities in Europe. He's very proud of the work they do.'

'And what is that exactly? I forget - '

'Medi-Magic. Healing the sick and old. Saving the wizarding world… That sort of thing. It's all a bit too evangelical for my liking. Everyone's in awe of_ Saint_ Saul – that's Mr Jeroboam, who owns the company - even though we never got to meet the man! Personally, I'd rather have worked at Medi-World.'

'Why's that then?'

'Better pay, shorter working hours, less groveling. Jeroboam might be the great white hope of the wizarding world, but he pays his staff peanuts.'

XXX

Not exactly a glowing endorsement of Jeroboam, Hermione thought as they walked back to the Ministry a little later than she had first anticipated. But by the same token, she didn't feel the man could be considered the next Dark Lord just because he was a bit stingy.

As for Draco? Sounded like a shifty little shit in the romance department, but that was hardly surprising. But to learn that the Malfoys had been bankrupt! No wonder Draco had been dirty dealing in Dark Magic artefacts. The family had been broke.

There were three messages waiting on Hermione's desk. The first was a big blow to her plan to undermine Draco's credibility.

In answer to her question concerning Dark Flux's status as a Verifiable Imponderable, the archivist at the Department of Mysteries had confirmed that, yes, it had been removed from the list. Just last year.

Exactly as Draco Malfoy had said.

There was no record of which official had permitted such a travesty, and no sign either of a Wizengamot hearing to discuss the matter, which was most peculiar.

The second message came in the form of a 'Case Report' and was similarly troubling. Hermione had requested any _historical_ data relating to Draco Malfoy - basically, case histories prior to any ongoing investigations. The resulting single parchment page listed a number of offences over many years, mainly minor infractions relating to missed court hearings and a persistent refusal to pay fines.

However, there were some offences that had been left blank. Completely blank. The date when Draco was charged was listed, but nothing more. Nothing incriminating. And the charge sheets themselves were missing, including Draco's latest so-called infringement, six months ago, that he complained had incurred a hefty fine.

This must be the work of Draco's friends in high places.

However, it was the third message that proved most shocking of all for Hermione. It came from her immediate boss within the department, informing her in the tersest of tones, that she had been summoned to a Ministry Tribunal, investigating her work practices, scheduled for Thursday next week.

XXX

'I can't believe it! I just can't bloody believe it!' Hermione was screeching, slamming dinner plates on to the kitchen table with such force that they nearly jumped straight off again.

'That Jinks is a miserable, lying bastard! _Irregularities. Anomalies. Causes for Concern!_ What the hell is he going on about?'

Ron shook his head. 'Doesn't make sense.'

'I could be sacked!'

'No, Hermione, that's not going to happen.'

'Or… or they might try to move me out of the Department. Out of Level Two. Maybe to Level Ten. Or closer to the law courts in the bloody dungeons. Now wouldn't that be fitting?' she said a little hysterically. 'I think I'd shrivel up and die of embarrassment!'

'Come on, dear,' Ron said, wrapping his arms around her. 'You know you've done nothing wrong. It's probably just routine.'

Hermione pushed him away, a little more roughly than she had intended.

'Who the hell do they think I am? Some half-cocked twit who doesn't know what they're doing? I'm Hermione Granger, for fuck's sake!'

'Weasley, dear. You're Hermione Weasley,' Ron said, a strange look in his eye.

'I've worked so hard for that department! I've put my life and soul into that job. I've done more for Muggleborn rights in the last few years than _anybody_ at the Ministry – and this is my reward! It's not fair!'

'_Children_,' Ron hissed, indicating Hugo, who was standing pale-faced and rather forlorn at the open kitchen door.

'Have you seen Elephant?' Hugo asked timidly, his eyes round as saucers.

Hermione tried to clear her mind. To take a deep breath and think.

'Nope. Can't picture it,' she sighed. 'Did you leave it at Granny's?'

Hugo shook his head mournfully,

'Can it wait? Mummy and Daddy are talking.'

Hugo bit his lip nervously, then shrugged resignedly before shuffling away to hunt for Elephant alone.

XXX

'I spotted Malfoy today at the ministry,' Hermione said, pouring herself a glass of dry white wine.

Finally, she was calm. Dinner had been eaten, Rose and Hugo were tucked up in bed, and Ron was reading the_ Daily Prophet_ at the kitchen table.

He didn't look up.

'He was talking to Tom Bennet. Works in Section B?' Hermione added.

Ron nodded. 'Yeah. Good guy.'

'Don't you think that's a bit odd though?'

'Tom's his chief investigating officer. They have _history_,' Ron explained.

'Well, here's a thing. That _history_'s been erased,' Hermione said in dramatic tones.

Ron continued reading.

Exasperated by his silence, Hermione tugged his newspaper out of reach, forcing him to look at her. 'I really think you should check out his case files Ron. _Before_ you go chasing off to Paraguay.'

'Bolivia, actually. Turns out it's a border town.'

'Well… wherever it is.'

'Look, Hermione,' Ron said, sighing heavily. 'I know all about Draco's record. More than you could imagine. I was his chief protection officer during the Angelotti trial in 2007. He was one of our key witnesses.'

'I didn't know that.'

'And why should you? That's my job. It's what I do_… did_.'

'And since then? Has his record been _blameless_?' Hermione asked with a sceptical sneer.

'Far from it. Like I've told you before, the prat can't keep out of trouble. His name's always attached, one way or another, to just about every Dark Magic deal that comes our way. Naturally, he denies most of it, but he's probably guilty as hell…'

'And this is the calibre of man you want to be working with? Come on, Ron, he's up to no good, and trying to drag you down with him. Why can't you see it?'

Ron shook his head vehemently, tapping his nose in a knowing manner. 'I've got an instinct on this one, Hermione.'

'But why _you_, of all people? Why not Auror Bennet?'

'Tom's a different department. Dark wizards planning mass murder isn't his bag.'

'Nor is it yours.'

'YES IT IS!' Ron shouted, jumping up from the dinner table. 'You might not want to believe it, Hermione, but I am now a _Section A Auror_. Like Harry.'

'Who I strongly suspect would be reporting Malfoy to his superiors.'

'No, he wouldn't. He'd be sticking close to the bastard to see exactly what he was up to.'

This gave Hermione momentary pause for thought. Did Ron know something she didn't?

'Look, Ron, it's simple. After all the things that were said and done at school –'

'_School_? Are you kidding me?' Ron exploded. 'That was bloody years ago. I can hardly remember _school_! A fair few things have happened since then, if you hadn't bloody noticed. Now leave this alone, Hermione. I know what I'm doing!'

Then, to Hermione's surprise, Ron marched out of the room, leaving her with that rare queasy feeling that she had just lost an argument with her husband.

This had been her last stand. She couldn't stop Ron, she knew that, and now she had no choice but to let it all happen.

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"ERASE/REWIND" by THE CARDIGANS**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to my betas – Lupinswolfie, Apurva, Lou & Megan

5


	4. Le Bonheur

_**Life is unraveling fast for Hermione. A night out at 'Le Bonheur', the classiest restaurant in town, goes very wrong...**_

**4. Le Bonheur**

'Please, Mummy. Please wear the shiny gown. Please! Aunty Fleur bought it for you 'specially!' Rose begged, fingering the hem of a red silk gown hanging in Hermione's wardrobe.

Hermione struggled to control the scowl that threatened to cloud her features. She had already chosen her outfit for the evening: a decidedly more conservative, high-waisted sky blue satin which didn't cling to every curve in such a wildly suggestive manner. After all, even though the next few hours were supposed to be 'fun,' this was still, to all intents and purposes, a work do. The annual St Mungo's Charitable Association Dinner and Dance was an event where Ministry bigwigs and business professionals exchanged information, cut deals, and even greased palms, if the persistent rumours were to be believed. Most Ministry department heads and a number of highly influential wizards were set to attend.

As a major up-and-coming star – at least, until _that_ _memo_ had landed on her desk yesterday afternoon - she was expected to attend. Expected to circulate, exchange pleasantries, maybe get a teensy bit tipsy, just enough to look like a well-balanced individual, and not ja crazy-eyed workaholic.

'Please, Mummy,' Rose persisted, continuing to caress the red silk gown.

'I don't think it's my style,' Hermione countered.

'But it was a present for Beltane.'

'I know, Rose, but this is not the right occasion.'

'Yes, it is,' Rose said petulantly, her bottom lip jutting out peevishly. 'You never look nice, not _really_ nice. Aunty Fleur says so. Aunty Fleur says you don't make the best of yourself.'

'Does she, now?' Hermione fumed.

She had always considered Fleur's little interventions rather rude. Fleur was always goading Hermione to 'liven up,' to 'be more herself' and occasionally act on instinct rather than endless procrastination.

Her meddling sister-in-law was all too keen to spruce up Hermione's admittedly drab, workaday dress sense, too, and, in this instance, she had insisted that vivid red automatically heightened a woman's sexual attractiveness. But, frankly, at this moment in time, Hermione felt so horribly burdened with worries, that 'heightening' her sex appeal really was her last priority.

Dressed only in her underwear, she gazed irritably at her reflection in the long, ivory-framed mirror that graced the wall of her bedroom. 'Not bad,' remarked the mirror, a little cheekily, Hermione thought.

But yes. It was true. 'Not bad for an old bird,' she repeated to herself in soft undertones. She studied her narrow, waspish waist, her flaring hips, and her strong, slim legs with mild approval.

She eyed the sleek scarlet robes dangling temptingly in the wardrobe. She even imagined a slight flutter of wind had rippled invitingly across the surface of its glossy fabric.

Maybe she _could_, just this once. Ron was coming with her, so it wouldn't look like she was on the pull, or anything idiotic like that.

She smiled at her daughter, whose watchful honey-coloured eyes met her own.

Hermione donned the red robes, then seated herself on a low stool at her dressing table, instantly aware that the hem raised a little too high, just grazing her thigh as she sat down.

Rose caressed a small velveteen latch on her mother's jewellery box. The lid sprang open. Rose squealed in delight, looping a string of pearls over her small, neat fingers, which she then passed to Hermione. She fastened the pearls around her neck, then coiled her hair into a chignon, fixing the knot in place with a delicate silver butterfly hairpin which her daughter had selected.

Hermione smiled inwardly. This was nice. This was how it should be, what she had hoped for. One of those private moments between mother and daughter that she hoped to remember and cherish. A moment which was all too rare, she pondered ruefully, between herself and Rose.

Rose was so unlike Hugo. Whereas Hugo, with his tufty earth-brown hair and perpetually scuffed shoes, was graced with a bouncy, unruly temperament and a cheeky grin, Rose's wild, red hair belied a self-contained and secretive nature. She was soft-spoken, bookish and shy, and altogether a little too in awe of her mother. She was much more at ease with her father.

Which was why Hermione was currently thrilled at her daughter's rapt face upon watching her mother apply her mascara and a dash of rich red lipstick.

'Your lipstick matches your dress,' Rose trilled.

'So it does, darling,' Hermione grinned, wrapping a black lace stole over her exposed shoulders.

XXX

The St Mungo's Charitable Association Dinner and Dance was being held at a glamorous wizarding restaurant, _Le Bonheur,_ in London's West End. The main salon was decorated in an ornate Belle Époque style, replete with exquisitely carved marble statues, lush velvet drapes, and a vast, glittering chandelier hoisted high above a circular atrium. _Le Bonheur_ was considered one of the classiest – and priciest – restaurants in town.

The restaurant had been enchanted to accommodate a plethora of round dining tables which encircled the atrium. One end of the atrium opened onto a deep, recessed bay window, and in front of this window was a long dais where the Ministry's chief dignitaries and St Mungo's senior executives and main benefactors were seated.

Hermione and Ron had been placed on a table that had been resplendently laid for dinner and positioned at some distance from the dais – a little too near to the Chamber Orchestra for Ron's liking.

'All that scratching and scraping,' he groaned, indicating the violins, 'they're going to give me a headache.' He'd been in a foul mood all evening.

'Just have a drink,' Hermione said, grabbing a flute of fizzing blue champagne from an enchanted, free-floating drinks tray which was passing by. Ron eagerly complied, draining the drink in a few short seconds.

As she'd hoped, the champagne was Exultante, meaning it had been pepped up with a hugely popular 'happiness' draught. Exultante was widely used at most public social occasions since the Second War against the Dark Lord, in an effort to ensure peaceable, pleasant occasions at all times. Ron was now beaming with delight, any vestiges of tired grumpiness instantly vanquished.

Hermione's relief was short-lived. A rotund, balding man joined their dinner table. Sporting a smarmy smile, he sidled next to Ron and Hermione, and, with a tone of unctuous familiarity, introduced himself to Ron as Mr Jinks.

'And Mrs Weasley,' he said a little nervously. 'What a pleasure to see you.'

'I wish I could say the same, Mr Jinks,' Hermione said in acid tones. 'But we both know that would be a lie.'

'I – I understand your feelings on this matter, Mrs Weasley,' he stammered. 'But you have to remember that I'm just doing my job. And I do happen to have some serious causes for concern, which do need airing_… _But this is not the time and place.'

'I don't see why not,' Hermione sneered, her hands suddenly itching to slap his flushed, flabby cheeks. 'The least you can do is give me an honest appraisal, face to face. Or are you too much of a snotty-nosed little coward?'

Mr Jinks was open-mouthed with embarrassment. 'There's no need for insults, Mrs Weasley,' Mr Jinks retorted, breathless with outrage. 'Rest assured, I'll be raising this… this ill-advised behaviour, with your superiors.' Beads of sweat had erupted onto his forehead as he spoke, which he now wiped away with a dramatic flourish of his napkin.

'Hermione,' Ron whispered urgently, aiming to steer her away from any further confrontation before she attracted too much attention. 'Leave it alone.'

'I don't like my abilities being questioned unfairly, Ron,' she said, a fiery expression in her eyes that Ron knew all too well.

'Of course you don't, dear, but he's right. This isn't the time and place. It's not worth it,' Ron said soothingly. 'Have it out at the hearing.'

Mr Jinks had already used this distraction to change tables and was now seated at the opposite end of the restaurant.

Hermione sniffed disdainfully and made a great show of studying the evening's menu although, inwardly, she was still seething.

She'd rationalised this Jinks business by now. She knew it was all rubbish, of course. An excuse to undermine her.

Privately, however, she wondered exactly who she had offended.

Or, indeed, if she was simply being made a high profile scapegoat, the direct result of the incipient anti-Muggleborn feeling she feared was making a comeback. In recent months, there had been insistent calls, usually aired in the_ Daily Prophet_, for an end to what was called 'positive discrimination' favouring Muggleborns in the workplace.

One memorably vehement article, Hermione recalled, claimed that excellent pureblood candidates were being deliberately overlooked, and even edged out of their jobs, so that the Ministry, in particular, could install Muggleborns instead.

A flash of silver notepaper prominently sporting the Malfoy crest and which appeared to have been dropped onto her plate by an invisible owl, worsened her mood. She snatched it open, furious at Malfoy's temerity in communicating with her in public. She was even angrier, and a little rattled, when she read what the note said.

_'I hope you wear something more suitable tomorrow night in Berlin. DM.'_

Suitable? What a cheek. She was perfectly suitable. Okay, so her gown was a little shorter than what she normally wore, but, compared to a large proportion of the witches currently crowded into this establishment, she was the model of polite decorum.

And how the hell did he know what she was wearing anyway?

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, subtly tugging at the hem on her gown so that it was stretched southwards as far as was materially possible. Her eyes feverishly scanned the restaurant, seeking out Draco's foppish silver hair and indolent smirk. Where was he? How dare he?

But he was nowhere to be seen.

'What's that?' Ron asked, nodding at the note now crumpled in her hand.

'Nothing important,' she muttered, screwing it into a ball, and vanishing it with a sharp tap of her wand.

XXX

Dinner was a splendid six-course affair, but Hermione was wound so tightly that she could hardly swallow. Ron made the most of her disability, adding half her portions to his own.

The Jinks had been replaced by the Osgoods. Hillary Osgood was something senior in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, and happily engaged Ron in long conversation.

Hermione had known his wife Melinda at Hogwarts, and she now worked as a lawyer at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, although in a considerably junior capacity compared to Hermione. She had, however, recently been appointed chief counsel in a major property dispute, which seemed worth toasting with a particularly expensive bottle of Pink Exultante.

Melinda's conversation was stimulating and she seemed very pleasant, but, in her current mood, Hermione had precious little interest really in talking to anyone, and fervently wished she had stayed at home.

After dinner, Ron had spent a good twenty minutes engaged in a bout of hearty mutual backslapping and Butterbeers with some of the Senior Aurors from his new department. But even _he_ was now looking a little lost.

He rejoined her at the table.

'Tony Goldstein's here,' he said, nodding towards a slightly built, dark-haired man in a smart black robe, standing alone at the bar. 'You can finally catch up with the guy.'

Tony looked to be scrolling through messages or text of some sort on what looked at this distance to be an enchanted parchment communication device. He didn't seem best pleased with what he read.

'I'm really not in the mood for all that rubbish tonight,' Hermione huffed. 'That's _your_ territory from now on, Ron, and yours alone. If Padma was here -'

'Come on, Hermione, cheer up. You've got a face like a wet weekend. Look at the poor devil. Bit out on a limb over there, don't you think?'

'Alright,' Hermione said reluctantly, dragging Ron behind her. Best to be sociable.

Ron, however, had other ideas, slipping away to 'mingle' elsewhere, as he put it.

XXX

Twenty minutes of turgid social chitchat later and Tony Goldstein was fast proving himself to be the _boring bastard_ Ron had originally trumped him up to be. Without Padma's cheery presence to smoothly manage their social interaction, conversation was stilted and slow.

Hermione was already onto her third Exultante.

'Padma was telling me how much you love your job,' she said brightly.

'Yeah. It's great.'

'Your lab… best lab in Europe, I hear!' she said, desperately trying to inject a note of enthusiasm into her voice.

Tony thought about this for a moment. 'Almost. Not quite as good as The Jeroboam Foundation in Geneva. Now that's _super-cool_.'

'Sounds splendid. Have you been there?'

'A few times. It's awesome.'

'Maybe you could work _there _one day?' Hermione asked. 'I've always thought it'd be great experience to work abroad for a while, get to see the world, don't you think?'

As she spoke she felt an almost tangible tug at her insides. God, she missed Harry so much. And, God, how she envied him.

There was a strange flicker of interest in Tony Goldstein's eye, which was quickly extinguished. 'I'm happy where I am,' he said with a nonchalant shrug.

'Sure,' Hermione said, nodding pleasantly, frantically scanning the room for somebody else to talk with instead.

She took a deeper sip of her Exultante and watched the restaurant manager swish his wand extravagantly, dipping the lighting and clearing a sizeable space in the atrium, at the heart of the venue. The orchestra was gone, and instead, a band was tooting and trilling in bursts, tuning up for performance; judging by the excitable gaggle of witches milling to the side of the atrium, dancing was soon to start.

Thinking about it, she could always use the dancing as a suitable excuse to wrap up this conversation. Maybe she could tell Tony she needed to 'powder her nose,' which she always found a particularly banal statement, truth be told.

Or she could say she needed to rescue Ron from making an absolute arse of himself. Having an inappropriately loud argument with an ex-Slytherin about the merits of Chudley Cannons manager Oliver Woods's new Beater system could only end badly.

The last excuse was true, of course, and Hermione was about to spring into action when she saw that Ron, face scarlet with outrage, was rapidly approaching, knocking into the dancers now thronging the dance-floor as he lumbered towards them.

How many drinks had he had this evening? Hermione thought wretchedly, her mood plummeting fast. Not just Exultantes, that was for sure.

'Slimy Slytherin pillock,' he snarled. 'Dared to suggest that Woods's new screw down system will decimate Chudley's score-rate ten-fold, and that Woods won't last the season.'

He halted his rant the moment he saw Hermione's eyes had glazed over and turned to Tony Goldstein instead. 'Oh. It's you,' he mumbled, barely able to conceal his disappointment.

He turned to the bar for inspiration. 'Just getting a beer.'

If Tony had indeed noticed Ron's rudeness, he chose not to show it.

'Sorry about cancelling our appointment,' Tony said suddenly. In the midst of events, Hermione had clean forgotten about it.

'That's okay. Don't worry about it.' She smiled warmly.

'Yeah. Things got kind of hectic at work.'

Hermione's ears pricked up at this point. She knew it probably wasn't true, but hadn't Draco and Ron inferred that Tony and his cohorts at Arcana might have been particularly busy because of the Dark Flux manifestation in Paraguay?

Or Bolivia, as it now turned out.

'Anything… exciting?'

'Yeah. The company got sold.'

'Sold?'

Tony clicked his fingers at a tray of gleaming blue Exultantes wafting past them at a fair lick. He snagged a glass for himself and Hermione.

'Yeah. This Yank chap, Ephraim Golowitz, bought the lot. Lock, stock and barrel.'

'Was that very sudden?' Hermione asked, beginning to wish she read the business pages in the _Daily Prophet_.

This was the only explanation she could think of for missing out on the incredible news that the Malfoys had ever been bankrupt. That, and her almost visceral allergy to the name whenever she saw it in print, of course.

'Yeah. Kind of out of the blue, actually,' Tony said. 'Saul… that's Mr Jeroboam… He's been the bossman at Arcana since I started there straight after Hogwarts. Well, he decided to move all his business interests out of the UK. He owns a major company in Switzerland. Red Star? You might have heard of it.'

Hermione hadn't, but privately decided it might be worth looking into. Ron, Draco, and Dark Flux aside, this mysterious magnate was increasingly piquing her own interest.

'What was so wrong with the UK?' Hermione asked. She took a long, deep sip of her Exultante.

Tony shrugged. 'He never said.'

'You've met him?'

'A few times.'

'What's he like?'

'He's… he's an awesome guy. Super-super-clever, you know what I mean? Brilliant wizard. But… you know something? I wouldn't want to piss him off. He's kind of a cold fish.'

'Really?'

'The new guy, Golowitz, he's completely different. Very friendly. Heads up Gilgad Inc, which is _huge,_ and has stacks of money. He's promised me unlimited funding for my work on Gimlott's Disease,' Tony grinned.

'So you won't be whisking Padma off to Geneva in the near future?' Hermione laughed, beckoning one of the enchanted drinks trays with a cursory snap of her fingers. One more Exultante couldn't hurt, she thought. It had been a tough week.

Ron had returned from the bar clutching a large tumbler of Firewhisky. So much for sticking to beer, Hermione thought wearily. He'd have a sore head in the morning.

'Still hate Quidditch, then?' Ron said to Tony, a little too oafishly for Hermione's liking. Really, the man had no manners.

'Not my thing,' Tony sniffed. 'Mind you, a few years back, I came across some really intriguing statistical research that showed how a high percentage of Seekers happened to be Epsilon blood-types – which was kind of interesting seeing as Epsilon purebloods, and in particular Epsilon half-bloods, are the least common blood group variety in the wizarding world.'

'Really?' said Ron, rooted to the spot in surprise. 'That's fascinating.' Then, with even greater emphasis, after feeling the full force of one of Hermione's death-stares, he continued. 'No, really, it is f_ascinating_.'

'Sounds a bit suspect to me,' Hermione muttered, pursing her lips tightly. If this was one of Jeroboam's research projects at Arcana, maybe she _should_ be a little more suspicious, after all?

'But _I'm_ Epsilon,' Ron said, obviously feeling peeved to have missed out on the greater celebrity status usually afforded a team's Seeker.

Oh, no. Wounded ego, here we come, Hermione thought contemptuously.

'Your siblings, Ginny and Charlie, both Seekers,' Tony pointed out helpfully. 'And the Diggorys have a well-known Epsilon bloodline. The Malfoys, of course, and the Blacks. Even Cho Chang… But then, the most talented pureblood wizards of Asian descent are more often Epsilon than Alpha or Beta, aren't they?'

Ron shrugged. 'No idea.'

'Then there's the true greats like Viktor Krum and Josep Wronski, both famously of Epsilon heritage.'

'What about Harry? Harry Potter?' Ron asked.

'Half-blood. So probably a rare Epsilon+,' Tony mused. 'Can he perform wandless magic?'

'_I_ can perform wandless magic,' Hermione interjected, quietly seething at this ridiculous, _racist_ conversation that her own husband was so happily contributing to. 'And I'm only a paltry little Gamma.'

Indeed, this had been confirmed by her blood tests at St Mungo's. The result was as expected. Most Muggleborns, with the rare exception, were Gamma.

'Hmmm… there's remarkably few Muggleborn Seekers, it must be said,' Tony said, oblivious to her sarcasm.

Hermione could feel hot anger bubbling up inside of her. So much so that the burble of voices, and muddle of bodies bustling excitedly onto the dance floor as the band upped its tempo and volume with a brash, jazzy number, seemed to fade out.

Or, at least, she wished it would. Sometimes she _hated_ this place, this wizarding world, with its stupid, archaic notions. No, Hermione thought, she couldn't let this one go.

'Has it not occurred to you _both_, that Muggleborns are less likely to be picked as Seekers because of the ingrained prejudices of their Quidditch teachers and team selectors? Purebloods are _expected_ to be more proficient, so there is a natural bias.'

Ron visibly flinched. He knew from bitter experience where this might be headed. Tony Goldstein, however, remained impassive, even curious.

'This research you're peddling, Tony,' Hermione continued, 'seems to ignore any sociological factors and their implications. It panders to nonsensical, bigoted notions that Epsilon blood types make better wizards.'

'That's not what he's saying, Hermione,' Ron sighed, rolling his eyes in Tony's direction in a show of solidarity. 'You don't need better _magic_ to be a Seeker, just better reflexes, better flying skills. But seeing as you know absolutely fuck-all about Quidditch, you wouldn't know that, would you?'

'There's no need to be so rude, Ronald Weasley,' Hermione hissed, taking a deep swig of Exultante, Exultante that suddenly didn't seem to be working. She was feeling heady and loose, but without the happy, buzzy little vibe that usually came with it.

'And there's no need to keep seeing prejudice where none is intended,' Ron countered, his face flushed with irritation. 'You always do it, Hermione, and it's beginning to really wind me up.'

'In the spirit of academic fairness,' Tony said diplomatically, 'Muggleborns might well be at a disadvantage when it comes to Quidditch because of less practised flying skills. Pureblood wizards have the advantage of being reared on broomsticks from an early age.'

'And does this research you quote _so authoritatively_, happen to mention this little fact? It does seem rather relevant, doesn't it?' Hermione said, prickling with irritation.

'As it happens, sociological factors _were _excluded… and yeah, on reflection, that's kind of an oversight,' Tony said. 'Just to say, though, this research was part of an ongoing haematology project at Arcana. The objective at that time was_ not_ to allocate specific characteristics to different blood types.'

'What was it for then?' Hermione asked, uncomfortably aware that a shrill tone had crept into her voice and that fellow diners, who were now queuing for drinks at the bar, were being drawn into their conversation.

Ron was clearly very conscious of this fact, and had casually draped an arm around his wife's shoulders. 'Hey, Tony, fancy a _proper_ drink?' he said with forced jollity, nodding at Tony's empty champagne flute. 'And you too, honey. How about another Exultante?'

'Get off me,' Hermione said, squirming free of his grasp.

She stumbled backwards, her limbs suddenly feeling cold and jellied, and collided with someone standing close behind her.

_Something_ wasn't right, she thought, her heart racing wildly.

'Dear me, Mrs Weasley. Had a few too many this evening, have we?' came a familiar, sardonic drawl.

Well, now she _knew_ something wasn't right. She had to pull herself together, and fast.

'Shut up, Malfoy!' Hermione snarled, spinning round unsteadily on her heel to face him. He was sporting his trademark smirk, and looking pretty dapper and self-satisfied with himself in a sprucely tailored charcoal grey gown. 'What do _you_ want?'

Draco feigned a hurt expression although his eyes were twinkling with merriment. 'I'm here on a philanthropic mission, if you must know. You looked such a glum bunch that I thought some Cheering Charms might be in order.'

'We don't need cheering up,' Ron said. 'We were having a healthy discussion, that's all.'

Draco had switched his attention to Tony Goldstein who was shuffling uncomfortably, toying with his empty champagne flute.

'You look like a man in need of a drink,' he said firmly, signaling to the barman with one hand.

'No need. I was just getting the drinks in,' Ron said. 'Wasn't I, Tony?' he shouted, having to raise his voice a little to be heard over the music, which had suddenly cranked up in volume.

Tony nodded sheepishly, flicking his eyes nervously between Ron and Draco.

'Do what you like, Weasley,' Draco said, grabbing an Exultante from a floating tray.

'I'm getting a headache,' Hermione surreptitiously mouthed to her husband. And it was true. There was a sharp, insistent pain drumming at her temples.

Draco was clearly an adept lip-reader. 'Surely you're not leaving us already, Mrs Weasley? The party's just getting started.'

'I'm sure you'll survive without me.' Hermione turned to her husband. 'Ron?'

Ron had a pained expression on his face. 'But I've just ordered more drinks.'

'Oh come on,' Draco grinned. 'Don't ruin the poor man's fun.'

'Just go away, Malfoy! Nobody wants you here,' she retorted, furiously snatching a fresh Exultante for herself from the drinks tray, which was still hovering close by expectantly.

'I was just thinking,' Draco said, studiously ignoring her outburst, his eyes on the dance floor. 'I don't think I've seen you dance since Hogwarts.'

Not only was the music louder, but the lights had dipped. Constantly curling whorls of multi-coloured lights, swished and whirled high above the dancers, moving in rhythm to the band's pulsating beat.

'Don't hold your breath,' Hermione said brusquely, taking a large gulp of her Exultante. 'It's not my thing.'

'I can believe that,' Draco muttered under his breath.

'It's not that I _can'_t dance,' Hermione said pointedly, rounding on Draco melodramatically. Draco instinctively stepped back.

'I'm just not in the mood.'

Oh, Merlin. Why was she even justifying herself?

'I must say, Mrs Weasley, that's a very short dress you're wearing this evening,' Draco said abruptly, overtly eyeing her up and down in a deliberately aggravating manner.

Hermione recoiled in disgust. 'How old are you? _Twelve_?' Darn it. She really was beginning to feel pretty bloody peculiar. Strangely hazy, as though a warm fuzz was creeping slowly through her body.

She could feel herself swaying and, for a moment, she felt overcome by a swooping sensation, like vertigo… she feared she might fall.

She planted a hand firmly on Draco's arm to steady herself, gulping for air.

'I'm just pointing out that you don't normally wear such revealing clothes,' he explained chirpily, his cool, grey eyes quietly appraising her. 'Doesn't mean I like what I see.'

'Shut up, Malfoy,' she snapped, instantly snatching her hand away from his arm, as if stung.

For the second time that evening, she was seriously tempted by violent outburst. Her fists were smarting to pummel the sneer off his face, to strangle him with that bloody silver rose chain dangling around his neck.

It must have shown in her face, or maybe she lurched a little aggressively towards him, because a glint of fear, even contrition, shaded his features.

'Okay,' he conceded. 'You look… nice. Alright?'

'I don't care what you think, Malfoy, and I never will,' Hermione countered, her eyes blazing with white-hot rage. Her head was drumming, throbbing. It felt like a burning hot band being wrapped tightly around her forehead.

'So why are you so angry?'

'Look. Leave me alone, will you? Why you talking to me anyway?'

Does he know about my Tribunal_?_ she wondered, suddenly bristling with suspicion. It would be just like him, to want to gloat over her misfortunes.

Another wave of hot wooziness swirled through her with such force that she tottered backwards, instantly alarming Tony Goldstein, who dashed to her assistance. But she elbowed him aside, falling against Draco instead.

Draco eased her into a vertical position, then slid his arm around her waist to keep her upright. She lolled heavily against him.

'I fucking hate you so much,' she snarled, her face so close to his, she was half-tempted to bite a chunk out of his cheek. 'If you get my husband killed on this fucking stupid little adventure of yours, I'll hex your fucking balls off.'

There was a sickly feeling rising within her from the pit of her stomach. This was all wrong. This shouldn't be happening. But she seemed powerless to prevent it, almost like the real, sane Hermione had been locked deep inside of her.

'You're really not a fun drunk, Mrs Weasley,' Draco said. His mouth was so close; she could feel his breath on her face, ticklish and warm.

Yet another swirl of intoxication spiralled through her like a spinning top. She felt nauseous and a little clammy.

'I think… think someone spiked me… spiked my Exultante,' she stammered, her legs buckling a little. She scrabbled back into a standing position and held tightly onto Draco's robe with tight, screwed-up fists. Everything was beginning to fade a little at the edges. Hermione tried to tell them that she needed to get out of there, but this wasn't translating into words.

'You're paranoid, you know that?' Draco said in quiet, low tones.

'So are you,' she retorted, tipping forwards and leaning her forehead on his shoulder.

'You're not going to be sick, are you?' Draco asked, an undeniable frisson of alarm in his voice.

Hermione stared at his highly polished leather boots and, for a moment, thought it would be a wonderfully hilarious thing to do. She closed her eyes, allowing the thick swirling grey to momentarily envelop her.

'Let's sit you down,' Draco murmured hastily. 'Weasley!' he shouted in the direction of the bar, but it was Tony Goldstein who stepped forward instead.

'Where's that fuckhead Weasley got to?' she heard Draco ask Tony in low, urgent tones.

Fuckhead. She liked that. Hermione burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, which she promptly smothered into somebody's shoulder, though she wasn't sure whose. She was now sitting down, although she wasn't sure how she had got there.

It was dawning on her fast, through the mist of dizzying confusion, that she had to get home - home to her children. She had to get away from thisplace, away from prying eyes.

She hoped she looked normal. She really, really hoped she looked normal.

'Do I look normal?' she whispered, to the person next to her.

'Honest answer?'

Shit. It was Draco. How humiliating. Bet he's _loving_ this, she thought miserably.

She prised her eyes open, which was much more difficult than she could have ever imagined. She was in a shadowy corner, that much she could make out… and the lights were low. That was good. Very good.

A shadowy figure standing before her offered her a glass of cold water, which she gulped back greedily.

It was Tony, she realized.

'Thanks, Tony. You know something… I thought, I thought you were really boring… but actually… you're kind of nice.'

Beside her, Draco was snorting with laughter.

'I like you very much,' she said, in a singsong voice she hardly recognised as her own.

What the hell was this? A mutated form of Veritaserum? Why would someone do this to her? She then turned to Draco, fired with fury by his mocking laughter, and grabbed him by the lapels on his robe so that his head was bent close to her own. 'But _you_… I don't like _you_ at all,' she growled.

'I think we know that already.'

'You think you can do anything you like. You think you can get away with it. All these things you've done… You're… you're a prat, and you can steal, and cheat, and torture Muggles, and whatever fucking horrible stuff you want to… and… and… _nothing_. Nothing at all! Like you don't exist. Like a ghost… nothing. Your records. Blank. Like nothing ever happened…'

'Tony? Do you want to go get Weasley? I think this one's had enough tonight.' There was a silence. 'Run along, now. I won't _eat_ her,' Draco said in fierce, wolfish tones.

Hermione heaved a huge sigh and collapsed against Draco, her head bouncing against his chest. 'And now you're going to kill my husband.'

His laugh seemed deeper, more rumbling than usual, but she realised that was because her ear was pressed to his chest. 'You are _so_ going to regret this tomorrow,' he chuckled.

'You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

His chest rumbled with laughter again. 'If you say so.'

'I'm going to lose my job next week,' she groaned. 'And I love my job.'

'Don't be silly. You're just pissed.'

'No, it's true. Got a Tribunal hearing… in the dungeon.'

'What for?'

'… irreg… irreg-ul-ar-it-ies.' She pulled a face, vaguely making out Draco's silver hair in the shadows next to her. 'But it's not fair. I work so hard. All the fucking time. I hardly see my own fucking children… and now, all gone. All for nothing. And you know what?… Sometimes, sometimes, I just want to be a Muggle again. A nice, normal Muggle. Back in the _real _world… but you wouldn't know anything about that. You and your kind.'

'Hermione…'

'No. Don't shut me up. Don't even try… Because I want you to know, Draco. Want you to know that we – the dirty little Mudbloods you so love to hate – we get a second chance. Which is fucking great… another world, another life… but you… you have to live here forever, trapped behind your spells and your wards and your glamours… pretending you don't exist… with all your stupid little prejudices that mean jack shit… so sometimes…' She paused, touching his face, checking she wasn't alone, ranting into the darkness. 'Sometimes... I just want to go home.'

'Have you told Ron this?'

'Please. Please don't tell Ron.'

'Don't tell Ron what?' came Ron's booming voice.

Draco instantly stood up, leaving Hermione to slide slowly sideways, crumpling downwards, until warm hands – that she knew to be Ron's – saved her from cracking her head on the chair beside her.

'What you gone and done to her, you jerk?' Ron said gruffly. 'I've never seen her like this, ever. Tony, give us a hand, will you, mate?'

Hermione felt two strong pairs of arms hoist her from her seat. She nestled lazily against Ron, who roughly pushed past Draco in his eagerness to get them away. Hermione could distantly hear Draco calling after them.

'Hey, Mrs Weasley! I hope you behave better tomorrow night!' she heard, but his voice was quickly swallowed up by the clatter and bang of the band as the percussion burst loudly into life.

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"LONELINESS" by TOMCRAFT**

**& "THIS PARTY FEARS TWO" by THE ASSOCIATES**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to Lupinswolfie, Apurva & Lou.

13


	5. Of Passion and Pathos

_**Hermione's night out in Berlin with Narcissa Malfoy takes an unexpected turn for the worse. Hermione finds she is being drawn deeper into the world of Draco Malfoy... which is the very last place she wants to be.**_

**5. Of Passion and Pathos**

Hermione lay in bed, gazing up at the ceiling and replaying her scant memories of the evening before over and over again.

She could hardly believe she'd got so drunk. It had never happened to her before. Sure, she'd got tiddly now and then, high days and holy days, but paralytic? Never.

And, judging by her pounding headache and dry, parched throat, she vowed never again. She was too _old_ for this.

Ron breezed into the room, carrying a tray piled high with warm buttered toast, a cup of hot tea, and best of all, a glass of Ginny's famous homemade Hangover Draught.

'Thought you needed a bit of pepping up,' Ron said cheerfully. He placed the tray on Hermione's bedside table and swung open the curtains, allowing a bright shaft of winter sunshine to flood the bedroom.

Hermione groaned loudly, crawling under the bedclothes and burying her face into the pillow.

'Sorry, love,' Ron muttered, rapidly closing the curtains again, plunging them back into grey gloom.

'Just wait until I've drunk this,' Hermione croaked, reaching out for Ginny's draught. It was cool, minty and hugely refreshing. She gulped it back greedily. It wasn't a cure-all, but it helped.

'I hope I haven't made too much of a fool of myself, Ron.'

'Don't be silly,' he said tenderly. He gingerly sat on the bed next to her and stroked her forehead.

'You wouldn't lie to me, would you?' Hermione asked tremulously, for what must have been the hundredth time that morning.

Ron assured her, yet again, that she'd done nothing more than get a tiny bit argumentative with Tony Goldstein – which she remembered anyway – and was a little sleepier and less surefooted than normal.

'You were tucked away in a corner. Nobody could see you.' At this point, despite his outwardly sunny disposition, she was sure his lips seemed to tighten a little with some remembered irritation. Something he was keeping to himself. And why did she feel almost… guilty? She knew she hadn't done anything wrong, not really, really wrong; but there was still that nagging feeling.

The scary truth was, after a certain point in the evening she could remember just two things: Tony Goldstein had brought her a glass of water, and her head had rested on somebody's chest, which she presumed was Ron's, it had to be Ron's, except… it wasn't Ron. She could sense that. And this same person was laughing. A deep, rumbling laugh.

'Ron,' she asked in quavering tones, 'was Malfoy there?'

Ron nodded. 'Just being a prat as always, love. Don't worry about it.'

'Someone might have spiked my drink last night,' Hermione blurted. 'I think it was him.'

Draco was the obvious contender. He hated her enough to want her to make a fool of herself in public.

Ron burst out laughing. 'Sweetheart, you got drunk! That's all. And you were already well-pissed by the time Draco showed up.'

'But I only drank Exultante,' Hermione whined. 'A bit more than usual perhaps, but then I've been so wound up over this Tribunal business….'

'I know, I know,' Ron soothed. 'No harm done.'

How could he be so sure? She thought grimly.

'You're paranoid, you know that?' Ron murmured.

Hermione's heart beat a little faster. Last night, somebody else had said that. Those exact same words.

_Draco_ had said that, she felt certain. She could even hear his voice – unusually low and soft-spoken, which was strangely disturbing in itself – resounding through her head. The sensation was so unpleasant that her stomach lurched horribly, threatening to eject Ginny's Hangover Draught even before it had worked its magic.

But Ron was right. She had to put this in perspective. She had definitely been feeling a little peculiar while she was talking with Tony Goldstein. So if her drink _was_ spiked, logically, it had to have happened earlier in the evening.

Could Tony have done it? He had certainly procured an Exultante or two for her. Might he have slipped something into her glass when she wasn't looking? Except, he was Padma's boyfriend. Nice, harmless.

Then there was Melinda Osgood's Pink Exultante. Her father owned a chain of apothecaries so she might well have the expertise… but the opportunity? The motive? It didn't seem probable.

Or might it have been something altogether different? An enchantment of some kind? Something she used, perhaps, to get ready, a new lipstick or a lotion of some kind. Or something she wore? There was her red dress, of course, which she had worn for the first time. But as that had been a present from her sister-in-law, it was hardly likely to be jinxed.

Hugo, bounding into their bedroom and jumping on her bed, instantly dispelled any further rumination. She spent the next twenty minutes tickling him until he couldn't breathe for laughing, all the while desperately trying not to throw up. Ron eventually bustled him away to finish getting dressed for school, claiming that Hermione had gone a strange hue of sickly green.

'I'll owl your office if you like. Tell them you've gone down with something,' he said helpfully. 'Get some sleep, love. You'll need energy for this evening.'

This evening? What was happening this evening? she wondered blearily. Oh no. Blasted Narcissa Malfoy and the Berlin Phil. That was what was happening this evening.

Hermione sighed in exasperation, and snuggled deep into her bed, piling a pillow on top of her head to shut out the world.

XXX

If it had been the _son_, a rude rebuttal would have been easy enough. But she couldn't do that to the _mother_. She'd been brought up to respect her elders.

So here she was in Berlin, freshly nauseous from a decidedly juddery Portkey experience, and squeezed a little too tightly into a jade green mandarin dress that her mother had passed onto her, insisting that she, of all people, could 'carry it off.' Hermione was having serious second thoughts about her mother's good judgment. She genuinely feared that her ribs might cave in from excessive compression, accidentally spearing her lungs.

Still, she had to admit that the rather zany, modernist design of the Berlin Philharmonie, the concert hall where the Berlin Philhrmonic Orchestra regularly played, was spectacular, even if it reminded her a little of a half-eaten, yellow-tiled piecrust, or perhaps a misshapen crown. The auditorium itself was a vast yet orderly space, with excellent acoustics, and to her surprise, was populated entirely by witches and wizards in full-gowned regalia. Indeed, Hermione was probably the only audience member in what looked like Muggle dress.

Possibly to her credit, Hermione thought, Narcissa Malfoy showed no embarrassment in venturing out to what was clearly a prestigious wizarding event, with what looked like a 'Muggle.' Indeed, Narcissa had seemed perfectly sincere in her compliments, calling Hermione's dress 'exquisite' and praising Hermione's 'neat little figure'.

This had been the first surprise of the evening, and a fairly pleasant one at that.

The same could not be said for the second.

'I'm only staying for the Wagner,' Narcissa informed her the moment they had settled themselves into their rather plush aisle seats, located about ten rows back from the stage where the orchestra was currently tuning up. 'It's that obnoxious little man Beethoven after the interval. His third. The _Eroica_. Do you know it?'

'I've heard it,' Hermione said, wondering why she had bothered coming at all.

'I simply can't stand all those swirling circles he likes to paint with his orchestras… up and down, round and round… it's positively exhausting. Makes me feel horribly queasy,' Narcissa explained. 'Still. At least the Prelude to the Lohengrin will be nice enough, although the Tannhauser's a bit too bombastic for my liking. I much prefer Tristan and Isolde, don't you?'

Hermione really didn't know what to say.

Narcissa seemed to take her slack-jawed silence as concern for her well-being.

'Don't concern yourself, Mrs Weasley. I'll be absolutely fine. I've already spoken with Dorothy Nott, and we'll be going home together. Theo's wife Honoria had twins last week – a very difficult birth apparently - so we'll have lots of news to catch up on.'

Hermione was about to ask if she should accompany them, but then the lights dwindled, and an expectant silence fell on the darkened auditorium. Hermione's eyes were drawn to the stage where the orchestra looked set to play.

'Of course, I won't be leaving you alone,' came Narcissa's voice, pressed close to her left ear. 'Draco's arriving in the interval.'

XXX

Any enjoyment Hermione might have ever had from the 'Wagner' had been totally quashed by this news. By the time the Tannhauser Overture had completed its never-ending cycle of climbing scales and brassy crescendos, her nerves were jangling.

'Oh dear,' Narcissa sighed, fanning herself with her concert programme. 'He completely lost control of the brass section, didn't he? What a mess.'

'Who did?'

'The conductor, of course! Oh look, there's Draco,' Narcissa said, waving her programme in the air to attract his attention.

Draco was standing by the stage, scanning the audience, and to Hermione's surprise, was wearing a dark three-piece suit. She hated to admit it, but the Muggle look really suited him.

No wonder his mother hadn't been phased by _her_ appearance.

'I hope he's not tired himself out,' Narcissa sighed. 'He's come straight from work.'

He had spotted them, and was striding up the stairs in their direction.

He _did_ look terribly tired, Hermione thought uncharitably. Not that she cared. She had the distinct impression that Draco's presence last night had exacerbated her strange behaviour. Even if he hadn't actually drugged her, she felt sure his vitriolic manner had driven her to greater excess than she was accustomed to.

Draco raised his eyebrows in vague greeting, which she acknowledged with a chilly smile.

'Evening, Mother,' Draco said. Hermione instinctively recoiled as he leaned across her, planting a kiss on Narcissa's cheek.

'How was the meeting in Dresden, darling? You look worn out,' Narcissa cooed, briefly caressing her son's cheek.

'A little longer than the meeting in Prague.'

'Oh dear. And the meeting with Ephraim this morning, too?'

'He's decided to come along as well. Said he would pay his respects to you.'

'Narcissa!' came an avuncular American voice from the aisle. 'How lovely to see you.'

Hermione wondered if this was the same 'Ephraim' Golowitz, Tony had referred to last night. The same 'super-rich' guy who had bought Arcana. Tony Goldstein had praised him to the hilt, and Hermione had to admit he was a pleasing-looking man. Like Draco, he too was wearing a Muggle suit; beautifully cut, with a deep crimson silk tie. She guessed he was mid to late fifties. Tall and well-built with craggy, handsome features, and an earthy charm.

Narcissa appeared to think so, too, Hermione thought. Her eyes were twinkling and her cheeks were aflame. 'I hope you haven't been working my poor boy too hard, Ephraim!' she chortled.

Draco shifted position, enabling Ephraim to assist Narcissa from her seat. 'Word of warning, there's a pretty nasty squall brewing out there,' Ephraim said, draping Narcissa's thick purple velvet cape around her shoulders.

'It's been such a pleasure, Hermione. I _can_ call you Hermione, can't I?' Narcissa gushed. 'Do come for tea next week, my dear. I'm sure Sylvestra would love to see you.'

'Ah! You know my little girl, do you?' Ephraim said gleefully. He now turned his full attention to Hermione. She couldn't help but feel a little mousy and shrunken in his presence, so much so that she wondered if he had covertly cast an inferiority spell of some kind, but swiftly realized it was the effect of his penetrating, blue-eyed stare.

Ephraim eagerly grasped Hermione's hand in greeting. He had large, smooth hands, pleasantly warm to the touch, sporting a giant ruby ring the size of a small walnut.

'We - we met a few days ago,' Hermione said, a little too timidly she feared.

'Sylvestra is _very_ impressed with Hermione,' Narcissa said kindly.

Hermione blushed deeply. She really had no desire to mean _anything at all_ to these people, let alone impress them. Her displeasure was further piqued by a keen awareness that Draco was listening intently to this exchange, a sly, mocking smile on his face.

'It's been very nice to meet you,' Ephraim said cordially. 'I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?'

'Hermione. Hermione Weasley.'

A brief flash of recognition sparkled in his eyes, which then darkened with interest, but he was quick to collect himself.

'It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs Weasley,' he said. 'Now if you'll just excuse me, I need to escort Mrs Malfoy to the Portkey station.'

He patted Draco on the shoulder in a friendly, familial manner, and led Narcissa towards the exit.

Hermione sighed inwardly, realizing her night was about to get a whole lot worse.

'You don't have to sit with me, Malfoy,' she said wearily. 'In fact, I'd really rather you didn't.'

'That's remarkably uncivil of you, Mrs Weasley,' Draco said, barging past her knees, and landing heavily on Narcissa's freshly vacated seat beside her. 'I really don't understand what my mother sees in you.'

'She doesn't need to be so nice,' Hermione said frostily.

'No, she doesn't,' Draco mumbled, picking up the concert programme his mother had left on her seat. 'Maybe she's trying to make amends.'

'Amends?' Hermione asked, a little stunned. He could only be referring to what had happened all those years ago at Malfoy Manor. After all, it had been Narcissa's own sister, Bellatrix, who had tortured her.

'Yes. You heard me,' Draco said irritably. 'It's very stuffy in here, isn't it?' He stripped off his jacket, folding it neatly onto his knees, and loosened the top button of his shirt.

Draco seemingly hadn't noticed her perturbation and was now ,flicking casually through the programme, acting like he had said nothing out of the ordinary.

How could he say something like that, something so hugely meaningful for her, and then… nothing? What was he? A sociopath?

Hermione stared fixedly ahead, watching the audience gradually filtering in to the auditorium, returning to their seats. There was a gradual hum and bustle about the place, punctuated by the occasional shrill burst of laughter.

On the plus side, she supposed, he hadn't made any cutting remarks about her behaviour last night, which was surprising to say the least.

Yet, she soon found Draco's stony silence gnawing away at her.

'Is that something your mother has told you?' Hermione asked archly. 'That she wanted to make amends?'

'Not in so many words, no,' Draco said. He continued to browse through the programme, not even bothering to look up.

'So that's _your_ take on it?'

Draco sighed. 'I wish I hadn't said it now.'

They returned to weighty silence. A silence that grew ever more disconcerting as each minute passed, because it now occurred to Hermione that, rather than being a source of comfort, Draco's notable silence on the subject of _last night, _was possibly most disconcerting of all.

He would_ never _normally have passed up a major opportunity to take the piss out of her. So why now?

She had to say something, if only to dispel any idea in her _own_ mind, that there may have been a moment last night, of what she hesitated to call _intimacy_ pass between them. Something so alien and unwanted, that it made her feel sick just thinking about it.

The problem was, she had a strange, buried sense deep within her, that somehow this had been the case. She just didn't know how or why. Truth be told, she couldn't bloody remember, that was half the problem in a nutshell.

Hermione decided attack was her best tactic in this situation. She needed to break the deadlock. To move their relationship – if that's what mutual loathing could be called – back onto an even keel.

'So was it _you_ who spiked my Exultante last night?' she asked in accusing tones.

'Don't be pathetic,' he drawled. 'Babysitting you when you're drunk isn't my idea of fun you know.' He gave her a swift sidelong glance. 'I'm amazed you made it here in one piece, actually.'

'I nearly didn't.'

'You wouldn't have been missed.'

She was desperately trying to conjure a pithy, witty retort when Draco suddenly declared, 'I really don't know why my mother wanted to come to this concert anyway. She hates Beethoven.'

'Yes, I know,' Hermione replied, relieved that the conversation had shifted so quickly to neutral ground. The strange awkwardness between them had dissipated. This was a good sign. Maybe he'd seen no reason to taunt her about last night because nothing had actually happened.

'I think the _Eroica_'s a bit too martial for her liking. Too intense,' he continued. 'She prefers music with a lighter touch. More feminine.'

'What's that then? Thrumming harps and choirboys? Little dicky birds tweeting in meadows?'

Draco looked at her askance, his brow furrowed quizzically.

'Maybe it's all that 'Passion and Pathos'_?_' Hermione murmured, referring with deliberate irony to the title of the concert programme, which described the _Eroica_ using these same words. 'It's all a bit misleading really. Sounds like a love story, rather than a homage to a trumped-up, pint-sized dictator.'

'Passion and pathos. Is that really your idea of a love story?' Draco cackled. 'There must be more to Ron than I thought.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' Hermione asked tetchily, instantly craving the stilted silence she herself had broke.

'Just that I wouldn't have put you and Ron in the 'Passion and Pathos' category myself.' Draco smirked, his cool, grey eyes dancing with amusement.

'What _category_ would you put us in then? Actually, no. Don't answer that. I don't want to know what you think,' Hermione said, grabbing the programme from Draco and furiously thumbing through the pages.

'Whoa there, you've just skipped all the interesting stuff about Napoleon!' Draco said. 'I was still reading that.'

Hermione impatiently thrust the programme back at him. 'I forget. This is probably very educational for you. I bet you don't even know who Napoleon is!'

'Of course I know who Napoleon is! What do you take me for? An imbecile?' Draco scoffed. 'I have an ancestor who served in Napoleon's Imperial Guard, I'll have you know.'

The orchestra had returned to the stage and the audience erupted into appreciative applause. Hermione was glad, even though something was rankling her.

She really, really knew that she shouldn't rise to the bait. Leave it alone, Hermione, she told herself, but it was too late, she couldn't help herself… she was already asking.

'Go on then, Malfoy. Amaze me with your wondrous powers of observation. What_ category_ would you put us in then?' she asked in a shrill whisper as the audience simmered down, and the orchestra briefly retuned their instruments.

Even though the lights had dimmed, she could feel Draco's eyes appraising her curiously, even triumphantly. She was glad of the relative darkness, as she could sense the heated glow of humiliating retreat staining her cheeks.

'You and Ron?'

'Who else would I be referring to?'

'I dunno. I always thought you and Potter might get it on –'

'Harry? That's ludicrous!'

'The lady doth protest too much, methinks,' Draco said in wheedling tones. 'Broke your heart, did he?'

There was hushed anticipation in the auditorium as the conductor raised his baton.

'There was never anything between Harry and me,' Hermione said sternly, aware of the tension in her voice.

'He'd have been a better bet than Weasel,' Draco said drolly. 'Less of the cosy comfort and carpet slippers…'

'Oh shut up, you pillock,' she snapped, her voice ringing out a little too loudly.

'Control yourself, Granger,' Draco chuckled softly in her ear. 'You'll get us thrown out.'

XXX

'Mother definitely wouldn't have enjoyed that,' Draco asserted, as they streamed out of the busy concert hall into the crowded lobby, following signs for their appropriate Portkey station, to whisk them back to England. 'It would have made her very dizzy.'

'Isn't that your friend Ephraim waiting for you?' Hermione asked.

Ephraim was an unmissable, imposing presence; holding court with a number of wizards who seemed to hang on his every word, close by the entrance to the UK Portkey stations.

Draco glanced furtively towards him, then tugged Hermione's arm and pulled her away from the flow of UK-only traffic and into the path of 'Frankreich/France' instead.

'We'll take the long way round,' he said curtly.

'But I'd rather get home as quickly as possible,' Hermione complained.

'I have my own Portkey.'

'I'm not travelling with an _unauthorised_ Portkey,' Hermione said snippily. 'Look, there's more UK stations over there.'

Sure enough, a sign pointed into the car park.

Outside there was a light drizzle and a chill wind, not quite the 'squall' Ephraim had warned against. Draco flipped open his attaché case and produced an umbrella, for which Hermione was glad of.

The Portkey stations were arranged in an ordered line on the opposite side of the car park, each manned by an efficient-looking wizard. The queues here were much shorter.

'So tell me, Malfoy. Were you deliberately trying to avoid Mr Golowitz? I presume that's who he is,' Hermione asked, buttoning up her black Macintosh.

'It's been a long day,' Draco said. 'We've seen plenty of each other as it is.'

'Tony Goldstein told me he now owns Arcana.'

'Yes. I found that out today myself,' Draco said, a little peevishly Hermione thought. 'He's a shrewd businessman. Arcana's stock will soar.'

'Tony seems to like him.'

'Ephraim's a good man. Very clever.'

As they walked across the car park, Hermione couldn't help but wonder exactly what being a 'good man' entailed for someone with Draco's dubious morality.

'He's just _your_ kind of wizard actually,' Draco said, a little caustically. 'Actively worked against Voldemort in both wars. Raised funds. Provided safe houses. Lots of _do-gooding_ stuff, that I'm sure you'd find very impressive.'

Hermione was surprised to hear Draco use Voldemort's name so casually. Clearly Ron was right. Time had definitely moved on since the end of the Second Wizarding War.

'Where's Ephraim from?' Hermione asked.

'Ohio.'

'So how do _you_ know him?' Hermione asked, bewildered how a decent wizard like Ephraim Golowitz had managed to get himself embroiled with the Malfoys.

'Is that a serious question?' Draco asked in bemused tones.

'Don't mock me, Malfoy. I've taken as little an interest in your life as possible these past fifteen years,' Hermione said sniffily.

'He's my father-in-law. And no, I'm _not_ married to Sylvestra,' Draco said tersely. 'Her sister… her sister Katya was… _is_ my wife,' he added, a little hoarsely.

'Oh,' Hermione said, thinking back to Padma's instructive conversation the other day, the pieces now falling into place. 'So Ephraim Golowitz became an investor in Herb Healing and that's how you met Sylvestra, and-'

'Yes, yes. He's my business partner. Enough of the fucking inquisition,' Draco huffed. 'There's a Portkey there going to my local village. You can floo home from the manor.'

'I'd rather Apparate, thanks,' Hermione muttered.

'Actually, I've got something for Ron. It's too heavy to send by owl.'

Hermione rolled her eyes. Would this torture never cease?

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"TRISTAN UND ISOLDE: PRELUDE" by RICHARD WAGNER**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to Lupinswolfie, Apurva & Lou.

5


	6. Though This Be Madness

_**Who is Draco's missing wife? And what happened to her? Hermione learns Draco's dark secret. A night of unexpected revelations at Malfoy Manor…**_

**6. Though This Be Madness **

Narcissa had clearly expected to have a drink with her son once he returned from Berlin, as signified by a crystal decanter of something dark and reddish, and two small glasses, perched on a tray on the glass table in the centre of her darkened salon. The sole illumination was a faint glow emanating from the orange and yellow tongues of firelight flickering and crackling in the fireplace.

Narcissa herself was reclining on one of the vast white sofas, lightly snoring.

There was a sickly smell emanating from an ashtray, where a cheroot was still burning. Hermione instinctively flicked her fingers, extinguishing it by magic.

'I should go,' she whispered.

'Of course,' Draco said, 'unless… would you like a drink?'

'I'm not sure that's a good idea, Malfoy,' Hermione said in low tones, afraid to disturb Narcissa, and ill at ease with the idea of spending even more time with Draco than was strictly necessary.

'No, it is. It's a very good idea,' Draco said firmly. 'I'm going to be working a lot with your husband. Starting with this trip to South America next week. It would make things easier if we got along.'

'I don't like you, Malfoy. That's not about to change, you know.'

'And I've never liked you. But I'm being sensible here. We might be seeing a lot more of each other than we would normally choose.'

'You? Sensible?' she scoffed.

Impatience flashed across his features. 'I am a perfectly rational being, Mrs Weasley. Despite your best attempts to paint me as some kind of manic Muggle-hating monster.'

'There can never be anything intellectually rational about a man who holds such mean-minded and elitist views as you do,' Hermione said disdainfully.

'Yes, yes, we know all that,' Draco said in bored tones. 'Do you want a drink or not?'

Hermione heaved a deep sigh. In truth, she was suddenly feeling a little light-headed, as a wave of fatigue washed over her. She wondered idly if the smoke from Narcissa's cheroot had been laced with some kind of narcotic. Slumping on one of these sofas suddenly seemed an excellent idea.

'Okay. In the spirit of cooperation,' which in her mind meant, _for Ron's sake_, 'I'll have a drink with you. But it doesn't mean we're friends,' Hermione stated plainly.

'Agreed,' Draco said, pouring them both a small glass of the thick, reddish liquid and joining her on the sofa. 'Here's to non-friendly toleration.'

Hermione took a long sip of the drink Draco had offered her. It was sweet and warming. Not unpleasant at all.

He silently sipped his drink, staring deeply into the fire, his face cast in half-shadow. Soft orange firelight flickered across his sharply sculpted cheeks, dappling his hair in fingery shadows.

'In retrospect,' Hermione added with an icy smile, suddenly and inexplicably seized with a desire to wound. 'You've always been more _pathetic_ than menacing. Hating someone as trivial as you, seems an awful lot of bother when I come to think of it.'

'Thanks for that,' he smirked sarcastically in return. He quickly drained his drink and gently placed it back on the tray. 'I'll get that box.'

Draco got up and left the room, returning moments later with a box of files and a metal attaché case. 'You can call it homework,' Draco said, dropping the box onto Hermione's lap. 'For Ron,' he added pointedly, in view of the thunderous expression on Hermione's face.

'You know I don't want any part of this,' Hermione stated firmly.

'I know,' Draco said with a nonchalant shrug. 'Just tell Ron these files contain documents dating back almost thirty years. All about Jeroboam. His work, businesses. Some research data. I've had a look myself, obviously. There's a lot of rubbish in there, but it's best to be comprehensive.'

'Who collated all this?' Hermione asked, brushing dust off the files, her curiosity sparked in spite of herself.

'Rivals,' Draco declared, flashing her a strange smile. 'Welcome to the murky world of industrial espionage.'

'And the case?'

Draco cringed a little. 'Can't be sure. We're kind of hoping Ron can find out. Or… maybe his brother. Is it Bill? The one who's particularly good at curse-breaking.'

'You can't get into it?'

'Not for lack of trying.'

'What do you think it is?'

Draco glanced furtively at his snoozing mother and then bent his head closer to Hermione's. 'You remember I said there was a break-in at Jeroboam's headquarters in Switzerland?'

Hermione nodded.

'This case was found there. We think it contains a prototype mobile scanner. To be used to trace Dark Flux.'

'Why would Jeroboam build a machine?' Hermione asked incredulously. 'Why not develop a diagnostic spell? Or a modified sneakoscope? It would be a lot simpler. And,' she picked up the metal case, feeling its weight, 'a lot less cumbersome.'

'The blueprints found at Jeroboam's HQ suggest this is kind of like a hybridic probity probe. One which Muggles can use, too.'

'Why would Muggles use it?'

'Well, like most globalised wizarding businesses, Jeroboam probably employs a fair few Muggles. It's almost unavoidable these days,' Draco said, almost a little too ruefully for Hermione's liking.

'Just give the case to Ron, will you? See what he can do. And tell him not to forget to bring it to Argentina on Monday. Is that clear?'

'I thought it was Bolivia?'

'Things change,' Draco said breezily. 'And remind him to make sure Bill goes easy on the case, because we don't yet know the effects too much magic might have on this type of technology. Apparition is to be avoided at all costs, and probably travel by Portkey too.'

'Good grief, Malfoy, you don't expect me to lug this lot home on the back of a broomstick, do you?' Hermione protested.

Draco grinned. 'We reckon floo travel should be fine.' He cast a pitying look in Narcissa's direction. 'I guess I'd better call Dryden. He can sort poor mother out.'

Hermione couldn't help but shudder a little at how, in this dim light, the pupils in Draco's eyes were vast, all-consuming, rendering his eyes a dense, impenetrable black.

'Who's Dryden?' she said quickly.

'Mother's personal house-elf. Mother named him after her favourite poet. My mother _loves_ the great Muggle poets… although Dryden happened to be a wizard actually.'

'I've never read him,' Hermione said.

'Me neither. Although my parents made me read most of the established literary canon by the age of ten.'

'I find that hard to believe,' Hermione scoffed. He hated Muggles far too much.

'Why's that? And it's hardly _my_ fault, by the way, that Mother has such piss-poor taste in poets. I prefer the exciting chaps, like Shelley or Byron.'

Hermione could barely keep a straight face. 'All that 'Passion and Pathos', Malfoy! I _really_ wouldn't have thought that was your style.'

'Talking of passion and pathos,' Draco said abruptly, instantly changing the tenor of their conversation. 'You never met my wife, did you?'

XXX

'Come on, I want to show you something,' Draco said, leaping up from the sofa. Something in his manner made Hermione think he was acting on impulse rather than premeditation, which made it so much easier to simply follow suit. She quickly drained her drink, almost retching at the bittersweet undertone, and allowed him to lead her to the main staircase.

But that was as far as she was prepared to go without any further explanation.

'Are you coming?' Draco asked. 'I won't bite.'

'I don't trust you,' she said simply, but even as she spoke, she found she had one foot on the stairs, ready to ascend.

Draco turned his back on her and started walking upstairs.

Hermione was caught between her own burning curiosity, and a powerful temptation to turn and run before it was too late… before she was pulled inexorably into Draco Malfoy's world. To her left was the fireplace, from which she could floo home, without any fuss or worries. To her right, was the staircase and Draco's gradually receding figure.

Draco paused at the landing. 'What's keeping you?'

She took a deep breath and followed; increasingly unnerved as the candles lining the wall became fewer and fainter the higher they climbed.

They paused momentarily at a darkened corridor, which wound its way into the west wing. This was the eerie, shadow-world where Lucius Malfoy reputedly lived in his splendid seclusion. Here, all candlelight seemed extinguished, bar one solitary candle, dipping and dancing to the tune of a light, chill breeze. Paintings lined the walls, but they had all been covered by black drapes. She wondered if this was to prevent the portraits gossiping to others about what they saw up here.

'I guess you already know the rumours,' Draco murmured. In the faltering candlelight, his face was cast in shadow, his cheeks hollowed and gaunt. He looked tired and wretched.

'A little – '

'But I get the feeling – I think you can keep a secret.'

'Yes,' she stammered. Her voice seemed to echo in her head, long after she had spoke.

'Good,' Draco said. He closed his eyes, as though taking a moment to collect himself.

'I don't know what the hell I'm doing here. This is madness,' he breathed. 'Maybe I'm all _stirred up_ by the Beethoven?' he added with a sardonic smile.

'I didn't think you liked it,' Hermione said, laughing nervously.

'I said my mother wouldn't have. It's not the same thing.'

To her surprise, they passed the corridor where Lucius lived – for one moment, she had been certain that Draco's secret referred to his father – and Draco led her to a different part of the house altogether, which was noticeably better-lit and more hospitable.

He ushered her into a room, partly brightened by silvery moonlight streaming through a wide bay window. She watched him, her heart racing in sudden fear and anticipation, as he fumbled in the half-darkness for what turned out to be a box of matches. He struck a match, and lit a large church candle, positioned, she now saw, on a desk in one corner of the room. He then lit two more candles, resting in crystal sconces, attached to the wall.

It would have been so much easier to use magic, Hermione thought, and was about to accuse him of becoming a Squib – if only to lighten the mood between them – when her attention was drawn instead to a large framed studio photograph, positioned prominently on top of a gleaming, highly polished piano.

This was _her_ room, Hermione thought, recalling Sylvestra's acid tones when she had mentioned it the day that Ron and her had come for tea. His wife's room.

It was a posed, family portrait. Draco was reclining on a plush cream rug. He was embracing a young boy, about Rose's age Hermione thought, so closely that their pale heads of hair almost melded into one. She guessed this must be Scorpius, Draco's son by his first wife, Astoria. They looked to be sharing a private joke, judging by the way Scorpius was giggling. Snoozing on the rug beside them was a superbly marked snow white tiger cub – a typically narcissistic touch, Hermione thought wryly.

'How did you get the tiger to stay asleep?'

'We are wizards, you know,' he said, in withering tones.

She found herself studying the portrait more closely, as though drawn in by… by _what_ exactly? There was something missing. An absence.

But of course. The picture was incomplete. The absence of the wife, the mother, could hardly have been starker.

'His mother left us while Scorpius was still a baby,' Draco informed her. 'Katya's been more of a mother to him than Astoria ever was. And, I guess Sylvestra's taken on that role since… well… you know.'

Hermione didn't know. She almost hated the fact that she found herself wanting to. 'When did you and… and Katya get married?' Hermione asked, strangely tentative about using Katya's name in this room, in Draco's presence.

'Three and a half years ago. We met in May, and were married in June. On my birthday.' He smiled. 'I was actually dating her sister at the time.'

'Sylvestra.'

'The one and only.'

'That must have been awkward.'

'It wasn't so bad actually. Sylvestra and I were never _serious_,' Draco said. 'And then… and then,' he said, lowering his voice. 'Last year, the day before Beltane… Katya disappeared.'

'That's terrible. You've… you've looked for her?' Hermione said, genuinely pitying him. As much as she didn't like Draco Malfoy, she could see he felt this deeply. It would have been inhuman not to feel some compassion.

'High and low.' He exhaled wearily. 'Obviously we've tried to keep most of it under wraps. Away from the public eye. The_ Daily Prophet_ would have a field day if they knew the whole story. I imagine I'd be accused of all sorts.'

'I doubt anybody would think –'

'Yes, they would,' Draco said brusquely. 'I know _exactly _what they'd think. What they _do_ think… too many things for my liking,' he added in dark tones.

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

And he was right, Hermione thought, bearing in mind it was Agatha Thrussington manning the gossip desk at the _Daily Prophet_.

'But she's not dead, you know. I have _proof_,' he said in a husky, almost inaudible whisper, forcing Hermione to come closer to the desk where he was busily unlocking a drawer with a small, silver key.

He unveiled a small, brightly painted box with a floral design, which Hermione suspected had belonged to his wife. Using the same silver key he had used to open the drawer, he now unlocked a padlock which secured the box, flipping it open, and spilling its contents onto the desk.

'You see, Hermione, nobody else knows this, but since Katya left, she has been sending me these,' Draco said, his fingertips gently caressing a handful of small, silver rose charms, which glinted in the candlelight.

Hermione instantly recognised the charms as identical to the single rose charm he wore on a chain around his neck. Each rose, she noticed, was actually two halves of a blooming rosebud, fused together, each half facing away from the other.

'These were originally part of a necklace,' Draco explained. 'My wife received them as a gift about a year before her disappearance. The day she left, I found this box,' he stroked the floral painted lid affectionately, 'with a silver chain and a single rose charm inside. There was also a note. _Never Forget_.'

'Can you be sure it's your wife sending these?' Hermione kept her voice low and measured, matching his own.

'She left me _this_, didn't she?' He gestured to the chain around his neck. 'I then received a second rose on my birthday, just a month or so after she left… and since then, there has been another rose, every few months. Special days… New Years, Scorpius's birthday in March.'

She quickly counted the roses. 'Six so far.'

'No, seven.' Draco brandished the rose dangling from the chain around his neck. 'I received _this_ one in September. I always wear the last one to be sent,' he said. 'The last one to be close to her… if that makes sense. I'm convinced she's trying to tell me something,' he whispered urgently. 'Telling me not to give up on her. To continue my search.'

Draco looked at Hermione intently, as if trying to read her expression. She felt he needed some kind of reassurance. Some kind of confirmation. Although she wasn't sure how she should react at all. Dealing with Draco Malfoy, one could never be certain. She half-feared this was some kind of elaborate practical joke at her expense.

'You're certainly being told _something_,' she said.

'Can't quite work out _what _though,' he said, a crooked smile on his face. He scooped the roses into his palm, returning them to their box. He then locked the padlock with a harsh twist of the small, silver key, which he promptly pocketed.

'The weirdest thing though… she always sends me the roses by Muggle mail. Not here, but to Herb Healing's Muggle office in London,' Draco said pensively.

'What was she like?' Hermione asked, genuinely curious.

'Kind. Generous. Scorpius adored her.' Draco then gestured towards a framed photograph, hanging by the door. 'You can see what she looked like for yourself. This was taken the week before she left.'

Hermione edged towards the photograph, suddenly aware of Draco's eyes boring into her, watching her closely.

Hermione struggled to find the right words. 'She….'

'She was _beautiful_, yes,' Draco murmured. 'And you'll see that she's wearing the necklace,' he added earnestly. 'Look.' He pointed to the twinkling silver chain of roses around Katya's neck.

It was a highly romanticised image, Hermione thought. The perfect sweetly smiling wife. A little younger than Draco, but with an air of calm, refined maturity. She was sitting demurely, hands clasped tightly together in her lap. Her hair was soft and tousled, rippling gently in a light breeze.

She was also, quite clearly, pregnant.

Hermione had a sudden, urgent desire to escape the weighty sadness which permeated the room. She felt oddly suffocated.

'I - I really should be getting back,' she said politely, aware that her face was suddenly flushed and warm, her palms sweaty. 'Ron will be wondering where I've got to.'

'Of course,' Draco said coolly, in a brisk, businesslike manner. 'I'll owl Ron with details about our trip.'

He glared at her dismissively, almost as though he was already regretting his decision to share this secret, this room and all it contained, with her.

Just minutes later, Hermione had flooed home, tightly clutching the metal attaché case with the box of files balanced precariously on top.

She had never been so glad to step out of her hearth into her familiar, friendly living room, currently strewn untidily with an abundance of her children's toys.

Hermione shook her head in disbelief, still panting slightly from her hasty exit.

What an odd end to her evening. Why had Draco told her all this? What did he want from her? It didn't make sense.

And then there was Katya. Poor Katya Malfoy, and her child, which surely must be born by now.

Hermione chilled, recalling Katya's face, gazing out at her from the portrait. Knowing she was missing, possibly even dead, there was a peculiar poignancy about her soft, lilting smile, the distant look in her clear hazel-brown eyes.

She was nothing like her striking blond sister, Sylvestra, that was for sure. Nothing like the identi-kit girls, Draco so famously favoured. If truth be told, she had more closely resembled herself, with her wavy, brown hair - though perhaps not quite as unruly as her own - and creamy, lightly freckled complexion. Though that was probably where all resemblance ended, as there was something altogether more sedate, more tamed in Katya's appearance. An air of quiet, poised sophistication.

Why would a young woman like that, and in her condition, leave her husband and home when she most needed it? Where had she gone, and where was she now? And what was the meaning of her secret communications with Draco. What was she trying to tell him?

XXX

CHAPTER TRACKS: **"MOONLIGHT SONATA" by BEETHOVEN**

**"STRANGE & BEAUTIFUL (I'LL PUT A SPELL ON YOU)" by AQUALUNG**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to Lupinswolfie, Apurva and Lou.

5


	7. Ghost Pin

_**Events take a sinister turn on the eve of the mission to South America. Someone... or something... is determined to stop further investigations into Dark Flux, and at any cost.**_

**7. Ghost Pin**

Hermione could see Ron was in a terrible hurry to tell her something. Watching from her study window, where she had been organising case files for her Tribunal hearing later that week, she saw him fly at unusually great speed into the garden. He then leaped from his broom, straight into a skidding run, leaving the unpiloted broom to crash heavily into a low-hanging branch of the crab-apple tree at the bottom of their garden.

Hermione hoped his news was actually worth the price of a good broom.

She hurried into the kitchen, convinced that he was going to bust the back door off its hinges in his haste to get indoors, but was glad to see that somehow the door had withstood the force.

'Hermione! You're not going to believe this,' Ron panted, his face flushed with exertion. 'Draco Malfoy's been shot!'

Hermione didn't answer at first, convinced he must have been hit by a jelly-brained jinx, and was silently cursing his brother George, who Ron had just been visiting.

'Didn't you hear me? Draco Malfoy's been shot! MUGGLE shot,' Ron repeated, his eyes agog.

'Yes, I heard you, Ron,' Hermione said wearily, reaching out for her trusty 'Oakum's Compilation: Counter-Spells & Counter-Curses for the Persistently Unlucky' which she always kept handy on a bookshelf alongside her favourite Muggle cookbooks. She was sure she'd seen a nice and easy counter-curse for just this thing.

'It's true, Hermione. It's not just wishful thinking. He was shot. In Central London,' Ron said, exasperated. 'Put the bloody book down and listen, will you?'

'Hold on. Did you say wishful thinking? You actually _wanted_ him to get shot? That's not very nice, Ron. Not nice at all,' Hermione said, beginning to see that her husband was in deadly earnest. 'So… is he… is he alive?'

'Oh yes, he'll live,' Ron said breezily. 'He's in St Mungo's. But don't you see? This might affect our assignment.'

Hermione would have danced with relief if it hadn't been for her reprimanding Ron just moments earlier for wishing ill on Draco. 'Well, I guess he can't go haring off to South America with a gunshot wound, can he? Where was he shot exactly?'

Ron pondered this a moment. 'Not too sure about that one. George said it was somewhere like Hoho… or Boho… .'

'SOHO,' Hermione corrected, in cross tones. 'And I meant, where on his _body_?'

'Shoulder or leg. One of the two. We can ask George later. He's popped to The Leaky Cauldron to get the latest news.'

Hermione poured Ron a pumpkin juice. He was still glowing pink from his flight.

'If it's just a flesh wound, St Mungo's should be able to sort him out pretty quickly,' she said. Once the bullet had been removed, a spot of Vulnera Sanentur should do the trick, she mused. 'Seems kind of peculiar though, don't you think? I can't remember the last time I heard of a Muggle shooting a wizard, can you? I wonder what happened.'

'He was lying in an alley for over an hour before anybody found him. And he didn't have his wand, so he was pretty defenceless.' Ron paused to glug back some pumpkin juice. 'The shooting happened shortly after midnight, apparently.'

'Really?' Hermione was very surprised to hear this. She had been at Malfoy Manor until half past eleven, she reckoned, so he must have headed into London almost directly after she left.

'That's all we know at the moment.' Ron gulped back the rest of his juice and slammed the glass onto the kitchen table. 'Stupid bloody sod,' he said, spluttering with laughter. 'Looks like he pisses Muggles off as much as he does us wizards!'

'You'd better owl him, Ron. Check what's happening with your trip,' Hermione sighed, putting trusty 'Oakum's' back on the shelf. 'And… check he's okay while you're at it,' she added, almost as an afterthought.

XXX

Draco was adamant that the trip to Argentina should go ahead. He insisted that it was only a flesh wound and that the mediwizards at St Mungo's had performed wonders on him. Apparently, he had already checked himself out, and was being fussed over by his mother at Malfoy Manor.

'But does he say _why_ he was shot?' Hermione demanded, desperately trying to read Draco's short missive over her husband's shoulder. It was the why that had begun to worry her most.

Based on the latest gossip, George was now convinced that Draco had simply walked in on something he shouldn't have. A drug deal, maybe, or a mugging. He'd heard that sort of thing often went on in Central London. Particularly, late at night. Draco had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But Hermione feared something altogether more sinister. What if it had been a wizard, trying to look like a Muggle, and Draco was the intended target all along? What if this was a shooting that was meant to do more than simply wound? If that was the case, maybe Jeroboam had got wind of Draco's mission and was intent on stopping him. And if that could happen to Draco, exactly how safe was Ron?

Hermione also wondered what Draco was doing hanging around Central London, alone, in the middle of the night? And why Soho in particular? Soho was a party zone. A place of clubs, pubs and restaurants. But also the heart of London's seedy underworld. Nobody else seemed to be asking why he was there – not yet at any rate, although she was sure those questions would soon be coming thick and fast once it was obvious that Draco was recovered.

Hermione had her own pet theory on the subject. One she felt she couldn't share with anybody, because, despite their chequered history, she felt honour-bound to respect Draco's privacy. She couldn't help but wonder if Draco's presence in Soho at that late hour was connected to Katya Malfoy.

Hermione remained utterly perplexed at Draco's entrusting her with such intimate information concerning Katya's disappearance and the periodic arrival of the roses. But she also wondered – worried, even – about what Draco really wanted from her. Was it assistance in tracking Katya down? This wasn't entirely unfeasible, particularly if Katya was hiding out in the Muggle world, living as a Muggle… sending Draco silver roses by Muggle mail. If _she_ was thinking this, then Draco was surely doing the same.

And if Draco hadn't stopped searching for Katya, then maybe he was looking to tap into Hermione's superior experience and knowledge of Muggles? Draco would struggle to understand Muggle life, in view of his pureblood upbringing. He could easily wander into the wrong place, at the wrong time… most especially if he did happen to be trawling the sex clubs and bars of Soho, looking for his estranged wife.

It was all wild speculation, of course. She had no idea how Draco Malfoy's mind worked, and she doubted she ever would. But the disappearance of Katya, in addition to Draco's potentially perilous mission to ensnare one of the most powerful wizards in the world, and now this seemingly random shooting, was making her head spin with unvoiced fears.

XXX

Clearly unperturbed by his brush with potential death and serious injury, that Sunday afternoon, Draco sent Ron an itinerary of their trip. They were to meet at Heathrow Airport early that evening, presumably to depart from the International Portkey Terminal for Buenos Aires, Hermione thought.

They would be staying at the Alvear Palace Hotel, which sounded remarkably grand to Hermione. She assumed Draco was footing the bill. They had a meeting arranged with a key witness on Monday, and then there was a possible 'excursion' scheduled for Tuesday, although it wasn't specified where to. They were to return to Buenos Aires on the Wednesday, and would be back in the UK by Thursday morning, at the very latest.

Draco reminded Ron to bring the metal attaché case, which had been lodged at Shell Cottage for the past twenty-four hours, frustrating the hell out of poor Bill Weasley. Ron hadn't told Bill how he had obtained the case, but Bill didn't seem to need a reason for some extracurricular puzzle solving.

Hermione could tell that Ron was excited by the whole thing, although he did his best to conceal it from her. In truth, she was a little envious. Her own working life felt bogged down in the minutiae of department meetings and case reviews. A trip overseas felt very exciting in comparison.

Of course, it was a sobering thought that Ron would be at the other side of the world chasing dark wizards – possibly even the same wizards who had taken a shot at Draco - while she would be stuck at home with the kids, desperately trying to keep calm ahead of her Tribunal hearing on Thursday morning. Ron had suggested she take some leave, seeing as she was owed at least three months' worth, to review all her case files from the past year or so. Make sure she was on top of everything, in case of any awkward questions. She thought this was probably a good idea.

What frustrated Hermione most, however, was the feeling that she was unable to vent her anxiety about Ron's latest venture. Relations with Ron had become so tetchy, she steered clear of the subject, to avoid arguments. She couldn't even confide her fears to anybody else, because Ron had ordered her not to breathe a word about it – especially to Harry, who was the one person she ached to talk to most. Harry was her regular point of reassurance. Without his support, she felt untethered, strangely unprotected.

As she watched her husband gleefully packing a change of gown, t-shirts and a pair of Muggle jeans into a khaki cotton hold-all, she thought about how much she'd been wanting to Floo-call Harry, if only for one of their friendly chats, but had held back, because she didn't feel she could be entirely candid with him. Maybe she'd contact him when Ron was away? But what would she tell him if he then wanted to speak to Ron, which was usually the case? She couldn't stand the idea of lying to him.

'What have you told your Mum about this assignment?' Hermione asked. 'You know how much she loves to know where you're going all the time.'

'I've told her the same story I've been telling most people, including Auror Carmichael,' Ron said, flashing her a self-satisfied grin. Carmichael was Ron's immediate boss. 'I've said I've got a hot lead on an Eastern European cartel illegally trading in hellebore and asphodel. Bennet and McLaughlin will cover for me if any awkward questions get asked.'

'And what happens when you don't produce any evidence that this cartel actually exists?' Hermione asked, decidedly nettled. She didn't like all this sneaking around one jot.

'Well, by the time I have to file my final report, I'll have landed a much bigger fish,' Ron said, stuffing a pair of trainers into the hold-all's side pocket. He looked at Hermione, a mischievous smile on his face. 'Mr Saul Jeroboam!'

Hermione smiled wanly in return. She sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing creases out of Ron's Muggle corduroy jacket, which was spread out, next to her.

'Yes, darling. By then, you'll be the saviour of the wizarding world,' she muttered, unable to expunge the sarcasm from her voice.

Ron stopped folding his t-shirts and cast her a dark look. 'You know what, Hermione? I'm getting pig sick of your attitude.'

'I'm just worried Ron,' she sighed.

'Well, quit worrying, and help me out. I've got to meet Draco in less than three hours. And I need to Floo to Shell Cottage to pick up the scanner.'

'Bill's got into the case?'

Ron pulled a face. 'Fat chance.'

'I tell you what, Ron,' Hermione said, desperate to make peace. 'Let _me_ go to Shell Cottage. I'll take the kids. They always have such fun playing with Louis.'

XXX

Rose and Hugo had been overjoyed to spend some time at Shell Cottage, and had begged Aunt Fleur and Uncle Bill if they could stay longer. Rose, in particular, had a very close relationship with her young cousin, Louis, and was desperate to have a sleepover. Normally this would not have been allowed on a Sunday night, but the adults all agreed amongst themselves that it might be a good idea if the kids stayed at Shell Cottage for a few days, enabling Hermione to catch up on some work ahead of the Tribunal hearing. Fleur assured Hermione that she would get the kids to school on time every morning, and that that they could pop round for hugs and kisses at teatime.

Hermione knew it was for the best, as she really needed some time to concentrate on her work, but with Ron away too, she dreaded the long, lonely nights.

Hermione had spent a little longer than expected at Shell Cottage, and grey autumnal dusk had now set in. Bill had already Floo-ed over to Wisteria Cottage to drop off the case and explain to Ron the various break-in procedures he had tried and failed, and still managed to get back to Shell Cottage with plenty of time to take another cup of tea with Hermione.

Hermione realized she had just half an hour to spare before Ron was due to set off for his rendezvous with Draco Malfoy at Heathrow Airport.

Hermione hurried home, Apparating into her back garden. However, as she approached her cottage, an involuntary shiver rippled through her. She felt a strange bristling of the fine hairs on her arms. She had always insisted that she didn't want to live in fear – not after everything they had gone through during the Second Wizarding War – and had refused to set up wards at the cottage. But in this instance, she didn't even need them. She just knew, from somewhere deep within her, that someone had been here. Someone unwanted.

The cottage seemed dark and silent, its windows blankly gazing at her.

A wave of foreboding rushed through her. She felt eerily alone, yet watched.

Instinctively, Hermione closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She stood stock-still, listening, absorbing, and trying to feel with her mind the faint trace of foreign magic that had assailed her senses.

There was a low hum, a brushing whisper of movement. The dark trees which encircled the garden seemed to shush and sigh. A light wind teased the treetops. There was a crack of twigs, and the scurrying of small animals hastening for cover in the undergrowth. A murder of crows squawking, leaves rustling, and there, in the furthest corner of her mind, Hermione saw it: a blur of movement, a flash of colour.

Red. Vivid, scarlet red.

And then darkness.

Ron, she breathed. Please god no. Ron.

Heart racing, she sprinted to the back door, slamming it open with a single brisk flick of her wand. She entered, wand held stiffly ahead of her, every nerve and fibre tingling with adrenalin and fear. She could barely hear above the thunderous sound of blood rushing in her ears.

It was still inside. Not a single sound.

Maybe it had been her imagination? Maybe Ron had left without saying goodbye. But then there was a faint groan coming from the living room.

'Ron!' she cried, dashing towards him.

He was lying on the floor, seemingly unable to move or speak. His eyes were rolling in panic.

'Ron! What's happened to you?' she shrieked.

She realised he had been immobilised, probably at the receiving end of a Petrificus Totalus, except he then twisted his upper body round to face her.

'Hermione,' he croaked, his face screwed up with pain.

'Oh Ron,' Hermione squealed, rushing to his side. His face was a ghastly white, his eyes wide and staring. She gently slid a hand under his head. His hair was thick with cold sweat.

'Unfreeze my legs,' Ron gasped. 'It was… Locomotor Mortis.'

Ron clenched his teeth, jolted by another spasm of pain.

Hermione quickly released him from the spell. Ron cautiously raised one leg, wiggled his foot, and then returned the leg to the floor, gasping in discomfort. He then repeated this procedure with the other leg.

Hermione was puzzled. In some instances, a leg-locker curse could leave the victim with a slightly frozen, tingly sensation in their extremities, but never the type of pain Ron was clearly experiencing.

'What's hurting?'

'It's my back,' Ron moaned. A slightly sheepish look shaded his features. 'I fell awkwardly.'

Hermione gently moved him onto one side and applied soft pressure to his back, starting from the shoulders and working downwards. Her husband winced as she gently massaged the vertebrae around the midway point.

'There,' he rasped, his body flinching from her touch. 'I must have jarred it.'

'Who did this to you, Ron?'

Ron shook his head. 'Dunno. It happened so fast.' He tried to sit up, gritting his teeth. He grabbed hold of Hermione, who pulled him forwards so that his head fell against her chest.

'Come on, Ron,' she urged, rocking back on her haunches and raising herself slowly, tortuously dragging his bulk upwards into a standing position. Hermione hadn't realised how heavy her husband was. Ron inched away from her, and then, with one supreme effort, flopped heavily into his favourite armchair.

Hermione glanced through the open door at his hold-all, jacket and Draco's darned attaché case, waiting in the hallway.

'There's no way you can go to Argentina, Ron. Not in this condition.'

'A few healing spells and Mum's hot beef tea and I'll be right as rain,' Ron said with a crooked smile.

'But you're meant to meet Draco…'

'You go for me,' Ron interrupted, fixing his wife with a steely glare.

'No, Ron! I don't want to get mixed up in this,' Hermione shrilled. 'Please don't ask that of me.'

'You're the only person…'

'What about Harry? It's about time he got involved. If Malfoy's telling the truth, then this assignment's way too big for you!'

'No!' Ron shouted. 'Do this one thing for me, Hermione. It has to be you, don't you see?'

Hermione didn't see. Didn't want to see.

'You're my wife, and you're a brilliant witch. I trust you more than anybody in the world,' Ron continued. He gazed at her pleadingly, his eyes a large glittering blue.

'There's no way, Ron. It's too dangerous. It can't be a coincidence that Malfoy got shot, and now _this_ has happened. Someone came into our home and hurt you,' she said plaintively.

'I'm alive, aren't I?' Ron said, with a shrug. 'It was a simple leg-locker curse, that's all. Maybe they just wanted to delay my departure? And if that's the case, that's all the more reason to get the hell out to Argentina and see what's going on out there.'

Hermione sighed. He was probably right. And yes, she could do this one thing for Ron, she knew that, even though it required some sacrifice on her part – namely her preparations for the Tribunal on Thursday. But the kids were safely stowed at Shell Cottage, and she had leave in hand.

'Couldn't you and Malfoy just postpone your trip for one day? You might feel better tomorrow.'

Ron vehemently shook his head. 'Come on, Hermione. It's only two full days in Argentina. Three at the most.'

Three days with Draco Malfoy. Hermione could barely repress a shudder of revulsion and dread.

'Okay, Ron. Okay. But I'll take the mirror,' Hermione said in clipped, efficient tones, referring to her part of a two-way mirror set that Harry had given them on their wedding day. This way she would be able to stay in contact with Ron. 'If your back improves, maybe you could come out to Argentina tomorrow, to take my place?'

As she spoke, she sped into their bedroom, pulling clothes from her cupboard and drawers, which she folded and packed into a small leather suitcase with a series of expert flicks of her wand. She rooted out the mirror from a concealed drawer in her dressing table, placing its matching counterpart on Ron's pillow.

Ron had levered himself with some difficulty into a standing position, and limped into the bedroom after her. He leant against the doorpost.

'I really appreciate this, Hermione.'

'I should hope so,' Hermione muttered under her breath. This is madness, she was thinking bitterly. Damn that bloody Draco Malfoy. Since he had barged uninvited into their lives, their world had gone topsy-turvy. 'Send 'Grumio' to The Burrow with a note, Ron. Get Molly to come and give you a hand.'

Ron nodded dumbly.

'Please remember to contact my office. Tell them I'm taking some holiday. And give Rose and Hugo a big kiss from me, won't you? Luckily, Fleur's already agreed to keep them at Shell Cottage for a few days.'

Minutes later, Hermione was standing in their living room, leather case and handbag at the ready. She was planning to Floo to the Express Lounge at the International Portkey Terminal at Heathrow Airport, which was a short walk, Ron assured her, to her meeting place with Draco.

Despite her feeling shell-shocked at this sudden turn of events, the sincere gratitude on Ron's pained face melted her heart. 'Come here,' she whispered. She brushed her lips across his cheek, then picked up the metal attaché case. 'This had better be worth it,' she said, with a heavy sigh. She felt overwhelmed by a dark sense of dread. 'Please look after yourself. Maybe talk to Bill about finally getting some wards set up?'

Ron looked pensive. 'When I think about it… they came through the back door.' He spoke clearly and slowly, as if his memory of what had happened had suddenly sharpened, come into focus. 'I was in the living room looking for my wand when I heard the back door open. I simply assumed it was you, but then I realized somebody was standing in the hallway, looking at me.' He paused. 'And then there was blackness.'

'They stunned you?'

'No. It was different. More like Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. And then I heard it. The curse. It was a man's voice. Kind of like a harsh whisper. Grating. And I just keeled over.'

'And before the darkness? What did you see?'

'Dunno, Hermione. Can't say. Just a flash really.'

'A flash of what?' Hermione asked, her heart suddenly beating fast in her chest.

Ron seemed to struggle here, and then a thought struck him. 'It was red. A flash of red. Then there was nothing.'

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"SOMEWHERE A CLOCK IS TICKING" by SNOW PATROL**

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to Lupinswolfie & Apurva & Lou.

5


	8. Not So Easy to EZE

_**Hermione embarks on a long journey to South America with Draco, and finds she is thrust into a situation of far greater personal intimacy with her former enemy than she had ever anticipated... **_

**8. Not So Easy to EZE**

Finding Draco Malfoy at Heathrow Airport was a lot more difficult than Hermione had anticipated.

She Floo-ed straight to the Express Lounge at the International Portkey Terminal, which she had visited on numerous occasions, and from there, she followed the signs for Terminal Five which was for Muggle flights only. She was already late, and had to jog for fifteen minutes in driving rain through vast car parks and across a busy road - getting stuck on a roundabout in the process.

Terminal Five was impressive yet dispiriting; a gigantic facade of featureless glass, accessed by pedestrian walkways spanning a narrow, vertiginous gully. Hermione shuddered at the thunderous wall of sound as jet planes roared at take-off and landing, which was continuous here.

She hated flying, in all its forms, and hadn't set foot on a Muggle plane since that fateful day she flew her parents to Australia sixteen years ago. She had wept for the entire journey, not just because of what was happening, not just because she was losing her parents for an uncertain period of time, but because she was petrified of the whole flying experience.

Hermione was both bewildered and a little apprehensive that Draco had arranged to meet Ron here at all. Surely he hadn't expected Ron to _fly_ to Buenos Aires when a Portkey would take a fraction of the time? There had to be another, more rational reason for this particular rendezvous.

Her mood was worsened by the sight of Draco's scowling face waiting at one of the entrances to the terminal. He was trussed into a long, grey raincoat, umbrella aloft, his silvery hair glistening in the purplish light of dusk.

By the time Hermione was alongside him, she was panting hard from the effort of carting the metal attaché case and her leather suitcase all the way from the Portkey Terminal, and was mentally berating herself for not casting a simple lightening charm.

Draco literally took three steps backwards as she approached.

'No, Ron, no! Please tell me you've had an accident with the polyjuice!' he yelped.

'Is it really so bad to see _me_?' Hermione snapped, more offended than she could have ever imagined possible considering the identity of the complainant. 'Let's get inside, I'm soaked.'

It was brightly lit inside the terminal building, which was a vast, open space, stylishly designed – all white, glass and chrome. It was hugely busy as the countdown to the overnight international flights was clearly underway.

'So what's happened to Ron then? Let me guess. Weasel-man's chickened out?' Draco said in scathing tones. He took note of the metal attaché case in Hermione's hand. 'Any luck getting into that thing?'

'None at all. Ron's hurt his back,' Hermione said sharply. 'So you've got me instead.'

'Clumsy clot.' Draco sneered. Hermione could feel his eyes looking her up and down. She automatically reddened, knowing she had to look a sorry, sodden state. Her riotous hair had broken free from its velveteen scrunchie around the time when she was trotting at a fair lick through Car Park C. Thick curly tendrils of hair were now clinging to her cheeks and dripping globs of rainwater onto her flushed face.

'Ron was attacked in our home. Kind of convenient, don't you think?'

'Convenient? In what sense?' Draco narrowed his eyes. 'Are you accusing me of something here? Because believe me, I'd much rather have _him_ here than _you_!'

'Listen, dipshit!' Hermione yelled, frustrated by his selfishness. 'What I mean is that you go and get _shot_ just before this trip, and now Ron's been sidelined too. Doesn't that seem strange to you?'

A look of genuine surprise and anxiety flashed across Draco's features. 'You mean… someone knows about our plans and is out to knobble us?'

'That's exactly what I mean. What happened to you anyway?'

Draco shrugged. 'I honestly don't know. I was meant to be meeting somebody. I got an anonymous note telling me they had some… information. About… well… you know.'

So she'd been right, Hermione thought, barely able to suppress a self-congratulatory smile. He had been looking for Katya.

'I was waiting in an alley – my contact insisted we were discreet, you see - and then, Bam! That was that.' His eyes darted nervously from side to side.

He already knew he'd behaved foolishly, Hermione thought. She was pretty amazed he hadn't invented some tall tale of grand heroics instead.

Draco was now casting worried glances towards the check-in queues. 'Look, we need to get going,' he muttered. 'You'd better come with me to the ticket office.'

'Ticket office?' Hermione screeched, incredulous. 'You mean we're actually flying?'

'In case you hadn't noticed, Mrs Weasley, we're at an airport,' Draco said sarcastically. 'Flying's what you do when you come to these places.'

'I'm quite aware of that, Malfoy. And equally aware that the Portkey Terminal is close by too, which will suit me nicely, thank you very much.'

'We have to fly.' Draco gestured at the metal case in Hermione's grasp. 'We can't risk taking _that_ by Portkey. It's too important.'

'What the hell can happen? It's magically sealed, Malfoy. And you told me it was a hybridic Muggle/Magic technology, so I don't think x-rays are going to do it much good either, do you?' Hermione fumed.

There was no way she was going to fly. No way. One of the greatest perks of living in the wizarding world was the ability to use Portkeys and Apparition instead of aeroplanes. Draco could fly if he wanted. But it didn't mean _she _had to.

Draco grabbed Hermione by the elbow and steered her away from the swishing automatic doors at the main entrance, deeper into the airport.

'I'm not risking something happening to that scanner,' he said in firm tones. 'It's the only one we've got.'

He still had a hold of Hermione's arm and was now frog marching her towards a British Airways information booth, hosted by a line of smartly uniformed assistants sporting saccharine smiles.

Hermione tried to squirm free, but his grasp tightened. 'You'd better have your passport,' he added gruffly.

She finally shook her arm loose, eyeing him in disgust. The rain had matted her hair to her scalp, and now a pristinely attired and poised sales assistant was watching them. Hermione instinctively pushed her hands through her hair, trying to make herself look presentable.

'Of course I have my passport. Doesn't mean I'm going to fly,' she said in low tones, not wanting to make a scene in front of their audience. 'And don't say you need my help because of getting shot. You seem perfectly well to me.'

'It hurts like buggery.'

'Well, you seem to be coping perfectly well on your own,' she replied haughtily.

'Look,' he whispered harshly, pulling her close. He half unbuttoned his grey raincoat. Underneath, he was wearing a black jumper and silk shirt over black jeans. He dropped his travel bag and briefcase to the floor. Then he undid a few shirt buttons with one hand, pulling his jumper and shirt aside as covertly as possible so that she could see the swathe of bandaging wrapped around his left shoulder and around his chest. Katya's silver rose pendant hung loosely over the bandage, which was stained crimson, as freshly oozing blood suffused the crepe from his shoulder down to his ribcage.

Hermione had never wanted to see Draco Malfoy's chest, and even if she had, having to gawk at his body, in the full glare of British Airways's finest sales staff would never have been her preferred option. But she was compassionate by nature, and was keenly aware that moving his shoulder hurt Draco dreadfully, judging by the pained glint in his eye and his sharp intake of breath.

'Any good at healing spells?' he muttered.

'Merlin, Malfoy!' Hermione said. 'You should still be in St Mungo's.' Draco grimaced as he gingerly buttoned up his shirt. 'The blood will ruin your shirt if you're not careful,' Hermione warned primly.

'I've got spares.'

'That's not the point.' This was a nightmare, she thought, her head spinning. She hated flying. She hated Draco Malfoy. The two in combination was enough to make her scream in blind panic. But the man was in no fit state to fly halfway across the world without some support.

'Why are you still bleeding?' she asked urgently. 'The mediwizards at St Mungo's should have been able to stop that with a simple charm.'

'I know. It doesn't make sense. Our private healer assured me that traveling wouldn't be a problem. But the wound started bleeding again the moment I got here.'

Hermione glanced around the airport, past the milling crowds queuing at the check-in desks, towards shops and bars, glutted with Christmas decorations.

'You might be best off going to the First Aid office,' Hermione murmured thoughtfully. She hoped that would do the trick. The last thing she wanted was to have to heal him herself. That involved far too much close, personal contact.

'Only _you_ would get a magic-resistant wound, Malfoy,' she complained bitterly. 'And we have another problem,' she sighed. '_Me_.'

'Go on,' Draco grunted impatiently.

'I'm – I'm scared of flying. And I very much doubt you have a Draught of Peace tucked away in that briefcase of yours, do you?'

'Oh,' Draco said, a little nonplussed at this development. 'Yes… that's right. You always hated it, didn't you? You were crap at Quidditch.'

Hermione glowered at him, beginning to feel a genuine sense of rising panic that this whole, stupid situation was already beginning to spiral out of her control. If she had any chance of getting on that plane to Buenos Aires, she desperately needed a little magical pick-me-up.

She inched closer to Draco - just in case the British Airways sales staff had supersonic hearing - and said in hushed tones, 'There's a Calming Charm. Works brilliantly with fear of flying. But I can't cast it on myself. You'd have to do it for me.'

Draco licked his bottom lip thoughtfully. 'Look. Don't worry about it. We'll sort something out,' he said in appeasing tones. 'Come on. Give me your passport.'

XXX

Draco had to buy a brand new ticket for Hermione. She was relieved to notice that they were flying Business Class. If she was to undergo prolonged torture, at least it would be in less cramped, more comfortable surroundings than Coach.

'Should we check the scanner into the hold?' she asked, once they were in line at the British Airways fast-track check-in desk, headed to Ezeiza Airport (EZE) in Buenos Aires.

'I think we'd better keep it close by,' Draco murmured. 'Maybe you could cast a disillusionment charm or something, so that we get it past security without any questions.'

'Don't they have all that top-notch x-ray equipment these days?' Hermione asked.

It occurred to her that Draco flew quite often, judging by the air miles she noted he'd used when purchasing her ticket. 'Even if a Muggle can't see the case, a machine might. That could get awkward.'

'Good point. We'll chance it then,' he said, picking up the metal case. 'I'll take it.'

They decided to get through security as quickly as possible. Hermione's heart was galloping wildly in her chest and she couldn't stop smiling, an inane, icky smile that she often had when she was feeling guilty or nervous. Although really she had no need to be feeling this way, she reasoned to herself. They weren't doing anything wrong. Okay, it might look odd that they had a machine hidden in a box, which nobody could actually open… but it wasn't actually a bomb.

Draco, on the other hand, seemed remarkably composed. He was wearing a cold, blank look on his face, all emotional response neatly packaged away. It was a look, she realized, that she had seen on him multiple times in her life when at school. She had always assumed it was a sign that he was devoid of feeling, a cold fish.

Draco ushered her through security ahead of him. 'Try to get a look at the security screen when the box goes through,' he mouthed in her ear.

That was good thinking, Hermione thought. They might at least get to see what the scanner looked like.

Hermione was quickly checked through. She only had her handbag, and her full body scan revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

She loitered on the other side, smiling sweetly at the guards. Draco was coming through now. He was instantly pulled over by a burly guard for a full body check. Hermione saw him wince with pain as the guard's large, flat hands slapped their way down his body. The guard was now making him take off his coat, and then his jumper, mussing up his pale hair in the process so that it was standing on end. A brief glance at Draco's face showed Hermione that his mask of cool composure was starting to slip. He was having to explain something. Knowing his feelings about Muggles, she was surprised he hadn't stuck his tongue out or whipped his wand out, transfiguring the hapless guard into a toad or a slug.

She edged a little closer to the security desk, and the bank of TV screens displaying the interiors of bags as they came through the x-ray machine.

That was it! The scanner. She was sure of it. A smooth grey image of what looked like a bulky, square-shaped gun in a small case. And clearly its appearance had prompted some consternation amongst the guards who were huddled together, murmuring and shooting strange looks at Draco, who was now arguing quite forcefully with the burly security guard.

'Excuse me, sir,' one of the guards called to Draco. He nodded to Draco's guard who then prodded Draco closer towards the security desk. Draco shot a brief warning glance at Hermione, prompting her to step back.

'Could you open this case, sir?' one of the guards, a severe-looking woman with swarthy features and a moustache, demanded in clipped tones.

Draco repeatedly tried, but failed, getting increasingly flustered at each abortive attempt. The murmurs were growing in volume. Draco now had three guards – four, including the guard who had body-searched him – in close attendance, watching him intently as he struggled with the case.

Eventually, the severe-looking woman lost patience and grabbed hold of the case. With one swift click she had opened it. She looked at the case's contents, and with an injured sniff, turned her back on Draco, holding the case open for her colleagues to peer inside. Draco's eyes, round with wonder, desperately sought to see past the woman's bulk so that he could catch a glimpse of the scanner for himself.

There was a bemused hum of whispered conversation from the guards, who then snapped the case shut.

'You're a very strange man, you know that?' said the severe-looking guard to Draco, slapping a bold green sticker on the metal case. 'You can reclaim this at EZE.'

Draco nodded, torn between wanting to keep hold of the metal case at all costs, and also relief that he hadn't been banged up in an interrogation cell.

'And see a nurse before you board. There's a First Aid post at Gate Thirteen,' the burly guard added in taciturn tones.

Draco had been dismissed.

Hermione helped him put his raincoat back on, neither saying a word whilst still in earshot of security.

'I think Gate Thirteen would be a very good idea,' she said, suddenly aware of Draco's sickly green pallor. She wasn't sure if this was the fault of the bleeding bullet wound or his close shave with security.

Draco shook his head in confusion. 'I swear, it didn't open for me. That doesn't make sense.'

'It looks like a gun,' Hermione whispered, as they scanned the information boards for news of their flight.

'Fucking great,' Draco muttered darkly. 'Look. Sod the bloody nurse. There's an executive lounge right by our gate. Drinks are free.'

However, as they approached Gate Thirteen, a pretty, young Muggle in a nurse's uniform passed them and entered the First Aid office.

'On the other hand,' Draco said in lighter tones, instantly following her. 'I'll meet you in the lounge.'

XXX

Amidst all the drama of security, Hermione had almost forgotten the reason why she was now standing alone in a British Airways Club Class lounge, in the middle of a bustling airport.

And then it hit her… How the hell had she got to this point? Had Draco covertly cast an Imperius curse on her? Or was this a case of straightforward hypnosis? The simple fact remained, she had to get on board a flight in around forty-five minutes, and wouldn't be allowed off that flight until some fourteen and a half hours later.

An icy knot of nerves in her stomach tightened, and her pulse rate notched upwards at the mere thought of it. Boy, she needed that Calming Charm, but in the meanwhile, she would have to make do with the free drink Draco had promised.

She had to admit the British Airways executive lounge appeared to be a particularly salubrious place. There was a quiet buzz of activity, but overall, the clean, modern design of the place and low lighting made for a suitably stylish, yet serene, atmosphere.

There were definitely worse places to be having a panic attack, Hermione thought, heading purposefully towards the self-service bar.

Twenty-five minutes later, Draco still hadn't showed up. She had already downed three gin and tonics in quick succession – each one progressively stronger, to quell the increasingly excitable butterflies jittering inside her tummy.

It wasn't that she feared the plane crashing. Her logical brain knew that this was an extremely remote possibility. Statistically, Splinching was a much more likely danger in her life. But she hated being cooped up in a tin can, 30,000 feet in the sky, with nothing beneath her, above her, or around her. Nothing but empty space. It was disorientating. And that terrified her.

Maybe she should eat something? she wondered idly.

She sauntered over to the open buffet and scooped a decent mound of couscous salad and some tasty-looking buffalo mozzarella onto a plate, liberally lacing it with a dash of balsamic vinegar dressing. She ate her meal with gusto, using a hunk of crusty ciabatta to mop up the remains. There was a range of fine wines propped up in a long line of ice buckets for her to sample.

She poured herself a large glass of chilled New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, followed by an even larger glass of Rioja, a rich, burnished red, which caressed her mouth with warm velvety goodness.

She was more relaxed than she could remember being in a long, long time, and delighted in this feeling of anonymity, of quietly sensual, hedonistic enjoyment. There were other passengers like herself, checking laptops, speaking into mobile phones, chatting, eating, enjoying a glass of wine. So many Muggles, she thought, a smile of amusement on her face. However did Draco cope?

'There you are,' Draco's voice rang in her ear. He was looking a little less disheveled, even though his shirt was still unbuttoned to his chest. She could see he was now wearing a fresh white bandage. 'The nurse gave me these,' he said, brandishing a small box of pills.

'I said I was a pathetic little crybaby who was too scared to fly. Humiliated myself actually,' he said grumpily.

Hermione pocketed the pills. 'I'm amazed you allowed a Muggle to touch you so intimately,' she said archly. 'But then again, if it's a pretty young nurse…'

'With soft, warm hands,' he smirked. 'Wait here. I'm going to grab a beer.'

Hermione's moment of calm had evaporated. To think she'd actually felt sorry for him when she'd learned about Katya and her disappearance. He really was an obnoxious little twerp.

She glanced at the departure screens. Their flight was due to board. And still no Calming Charm. She was running out of time. And why the hell had Draco just given her these pills instead?

She took a deep breath, then gulped back a deep mouthful of her Rioja, but instantly regretted it as a scorching sensation travelled the length of her gullet. Her palms, moist with perspiration, slid on the wine glass. She tentatively placed it on a nearby counter, aware that she was trembling.

She frantically fished the pills out of her pocket. If Draco didn't get back soon, maybe they'd be better than nothing. Her heart sank when she read the notice affixed to the packet, warning against taking this medication in conjunction with alcohol.

'Bugger,' she cursed. 'Have you got your wand handy?' she asked Draco the moment he had returned, clutching a frosted glass of ice-cold lager.

'No. Why should I?'

'You're a _wizard_, moron,' Hermione seethed. 'Or have you somehow forgotten that?' She always shrunk her wand and wore it as a pendant whenever she wasn't wearing a robe. Most wizards had similar means to keep their wands both concealed, yet handy.

'I've lost it,' Draco glared defensively at Hermione.

'_Lost it_? But I need the Calming Charm!' Hermione groaned. 'You promised.'

'Have another drink instead,' Draco said moodily. He snatched her wine glass and filled it to the brim with red wine.

'I'll be sick if I drink anymore,' Hermione whined.

Draco's eyes were a chill, glacial grey. Hard and without feeling,Hermione thought miserably. She reluctantly took the wine and slurped it back in one foul swoop. She felt she had drunk more in the last week than she had in the entire preceding year.

Still, the last glass of wine seemed to have had an undeniable effect on calming her nerves, Hermione conceded, as they traipsed through security for the final time and then onto the plane. By the time she was strapped into her seat, next to the window, a luxuriant warmth had suffused her limbs. She felt heavy, soporific, and as the engines roared to a crescendo and the plane surged forwards, she closed her eyes, slipping into sleep.

XXX

She was awoken from her slumber by the clattering of a catering trolley being trundled up the aisle. Her mind was foggy, disorientated, trying to make out what a plump-cheeked woman in a gaudy uniform, which strangely resembled the Union Jack, was saying to her.

'Chicken or salmon, love?' she asked in bright, brassy tones. 'Oh, I'm sorry, did I wake you?'

Hermione smiled politely. 'No. I was just resting my eyes.' She opted for the chicken, and was so busy fiddling with the tiny condiments and plastic wrapped dishes on her tea tray, it was a good few minutes before she realized that the seat beside her was empty.

It didn't take long after that for the full impact of her situation to overwhelm her. She was alone, on a plane, and she had a queasy sensation swilling through her stomach, and a dull, thudding headache. Any alcohol she might have consumed to help get her on board was fast evaporating from her blood stream.

She peered out of the window into the thick blue-black of the night sky, mesmerised by the incessant twinkling of a small, white light positioned on the wing of the plane. She became uncomfortably aware of the thrum and roar of the engines, a low-pitched growl which was even louder when she placed her ear tightly against the cold plastic window.

She took a deep breath, trying to still the shooting sensations which were surging through her legs. She didn't want to descend into panic. Didn't want her chest to feel tight and constricted. Didn't want to feel like she wanted to throw herself from the plane. She tried to block these thoughts, toying aimlessly with her food instead.

Where the hell was Draco? First, he'd dragged her onto this plane under false pretences. And now he'd deserted her.

'Coffee or tea?' the plump-faced flight attendant chirruped.

'Coffee. Black,' Hermione said, eager for any interaction. 'Have you seen the guy who was sitting next to me?

'The blond chap?'

Hermione nodded.

'Oh, he moved.'

'Moved?' Hermione asked, barely able to disguise the fury in her voice. How dare he? Did she snore or something? 'Thanks.'

'You're welcome.'

Hermione gulped back her coffee, and then slithered out of her seat to look for Draco. As much as she loathed him, she couldn't stand the thought of panicking alone for the next umpteen hours. She needed distraction.

She soon spotted him, three rows back, chatting to an attractive, middle-aged brunette, who seemed engrossed in a catalogue he was showing her. She could see it was a sales catalogue for Herb Healing. Hermione couldn't help but giggle. Here was Draco Malfoy, infamous Muggle-hater and pureblood snob, looking for all the world like a cheap door-to-door salesman.

Even though she despised him with every fibre of her being, she had to privately admit to being surprised by his easy manner with Muggles. She knew he worked with them. Knew too that he travelled widely as Global Business Manager for Herb Healing. So he'd obviously had to get used to them, whether he liked it or not.

She inched her way up the aisle towards him until she was looming over his pale head. He didn't even notice her and it was the brunette woman who acknowledged her presence first, looking a little sheepish for reasons Hermione didn't even want to think about at that moment in time.

'I think your friend wants you,' she said to Draco, a puckish smile on her face.

'Oh, you're up,' Draco drawled lazily.

'Have you moved here permanently?'

'You want me to sit with you?'

The brunette was listening keenly to this exchange, clearly suspecting a lover's tiff, which riled Hermione, but she put a brave face on it. 'There's stuff we need to talk about,' Hermione said. '_Work_ stuff.'

Draco pulled a face. 'Duty calls,' he said apologetically to the brunette, who was twittering her thanks for the catalogue and his company and hoping he cut that big deal he was after. Draco levered his tall frame out of the seat and followed Hermione.

'What do you want then?' he asked sharply, settling himself into the seat next to Hermione's.

'If you'd rather sit back there, I don't actually care,' Hermione retorted.

'She was pleasant enough. More fun than listening to you slobbering in your sleep.'

Oh God. So she _did_ snore. All these years Ron had been lying to her.

'I'm amazed at you, Malfoy. Talking nicely to a Muggle,' she said scathingly. 'Don't you want to kill them all?'

Draco clapped his hand over her mouth. 'Shut the fuck up,' he hissed. 'You can't say shit like that on a bloody plane. Muggles get very paranoid these days.'

Hermione instinctively reacted, sinking her teeth deep into the fleshy mound beneath his thumb. Draco roughly pulled his hand away, then gazed dumbly at it, too shocked to speak. She hadn't broken the skin, although it was red and wet, lined with neat indentations.

'I'm so sorry,' she breathed. 'I don't know what came over me.' She was shamefacedly aware that she had actually enjoyed inflicting pain on him.

Draco was flushed and lightly panting, still staring at his hand. She feared an explosive reaction and was increasingly surprised when none came.

'I think I must be a little bit… uninhibited. All that wine at the terminal.' And the gin, she thought solemnly to herself.

'Rabid, more like,' Draco spat angrily. 'I think it'd be better if I sat elsewhere, don't you?'

'Look. Malfoy,' Hermione pleaded. She hated him having the high moral ground. It felt strangely alien. 'What I really want… what I _need_, is the Calming Charm.'

'What's wrong with the pills I gave you?'

'They can't be mixed with alcohol.'

"What's the worst that could happen?'

'I don't know. But I don't want to find out the hard way, okay?'

Draco rubbed his eyes. He was clearly very tired. A brief twinge of pain flashed across his features.

'Have you checked your bandages since take-off?' Hermione asked.

'No.'

'Well… why don't we go to the toilet, check you're not bleeding everywhere, and you can use my wand to calm me down?'

Draco looked at her oddly, his eyes brimming with amusement. 'Did I hear that correctly? You want us to go to the toilet together?'

Hermione groaned in exasperation. 'I know it sounds strange.'

'Too fucking right. What would Ron say?'

'Shut up, Malfoy,' Hermione said, wrinkling her nose in disgust at his insinuation.

The plump-faced flight attendant was hovering. 'Is there anything I can get you?' she trilled.

'We're fine,' Hermione said. Draco cast the attendant a cursory glance and shook his head.

'Not so nice to _her_, were you?' Hermione said sarcastically.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'You only like the good-looking Muggles.'

Draco snorted with laughter. 'That's utter bollocks. She seems nice enough.' He thought a moment. 'British Airways often go for a more homely type of bird, which isn't a bad thing of course. Makes you feel looked after. Thai Airlines. Now that's a good airline. They go for out-and-out stunners. And Singapore. Gorgeous girls and a brilliant safety record.'

'I guess the ease with which you would resort to stereotypes in the Muggle world, is only to be expected,' Hermione huffed.

Draco didn't reply and seemed inclined to drift off to sleep, much to Hermione's frustration. Supreme irritant that he was, at least he kept her mind off her situation; the sudden cold fear that would clutch at her insides, every time her eye was inadvertently drawn beyond her immediate space. That endless winking light on the wing was a peculiarly menacing attraction, reminding her of the vast emptiness outside.

She guessed they were flying over the ocean by now, which made it worse.

She had to stop these thoughts. Had to stop the dizzying whirl of panic which was already beginning to sweep through her.

'This isn't fun, Malfoy,' she gasped. 'I don't know if I can put up with this for much longer.'

'You've no choice,' he mumbled, still with his eyes closed. 'We're stuck in the sky for the next twelve hours.'

'Twelve hours?' she squeaked, tears springing to her eyes. She wished she'd brought her two-way mirror on board. Wished she could somehow speak to Ron and the kids.

Draco was watching her through narrowed eyes. He sighed deeply.

'Come on then,' he grunted. 'Let's do it.'

XXX

She followed him to the toilet, which was mercifully empty. They squeezed inside, the dim light flickering on as the door swung shut behind them.

Normally, she rather liked being in the toilet on board a plane. It was an oasis of personal space. A small respite. She secretly liked the Lilliputian smallness of it all. The doll-sized sink and soap dispenser.

However, the last thing she really wanted in a plane toilet was to be squashed up tight against a groaning Draco Malfoy, struggling to remove his jumper. Draco flailed around, banging into the door, which he then leant against, panting.

'Give me a hand will you?' he begged, his voice muffled by the black wool coating his head like a faceless balaclava. He stumbled forwards blindly, smashing her against the cistern, her foot jamming onto the flush pedal. She couldn't help but grin at the resultant whoosh and slurp of water being gobbled away.

She hooked her hands into the hem of his jumper and dragged it over his head.

With fumbling fingers he unbuttoned his shirt.

'Why are you laughing?' he said, red-faced with the effort of it all.

'Just… this seems a little surreal.'

He looked at her oddly. 'You sure you need a Calming Charm?'

Hysteria was bubbling up inside of her. 'Definite.'

He had completely unbuttoned his black shirt, which further added to the strangeness of the situation. His bare chest was lean and surprisingly well sculpted with defined musculature.

She fixed her eyes on Katya's rose, glinting in the weak, yellowish light, then ensured she kept her eyes firmly trained on his bandaged left shoulder. A faint rosy stain was already seeping into the creamy-white crepe.

'Is it bad?' he said, a note of worry in his voice.

'Not too bad.'

'Can I last?'

'How many hours did you say till we land?'

'About twelve. Maybe eleven and a half.'

Hermione gulped. That seemed a mighty long time.

'We'd better take a closer look at the wound,' she said quietly.

With trembling fingers, she unfastened the clips the Muggle nurse had used to secure the bandage, and then slowly peeled back the crepe covering, aware that her hands were probably cool on Draco's skin, which was hot to the touch.

Not a good sign, she thought glumly to herself. She stuffed the soiled bandages into a bin, built into the paneling under the sink.

A piece of lint, daubed in a vivid yellow antiseptic, was still glued with congealed blood, to the wound. Removing it was going to hurt.

Hermione glanced at Draco, who was watching her intently. His breathing was heavy, gusting onto her cheeks in hot bursts.

'Go for it,' he said.

Hermione lifted the lint as delicately as possible. It clung to him, dragging clots of blood and tissue in its wake, and leaving small, fluffy fibres embedded in the wound.

Draco gasped, clasping the miniature sink with his right hand to steady himself.

'What's it like?' he asked hoarsely. He was looking away, watching them both in the mirror.

'Your pretty nurse made a botch-job of this,' Hermione said wryly.

'Maybe she was too distracted by my handsome looks and razor-sharp wit,' Draco said between gritted teeth.

Hermione snorted in derision. 'I very much doubt that.' She leaned closer, getting a good look at the wound.

The wound was a perfect red circle with angry-looking, puffy, correlated edges. It was bleeding - though, thankfully, not fast flowing – and weeping a glistening ooze. The skin immediately surrounding the wound was red and puckered, and worryingly warm. Equally concerning, was the hot pink discoloration radiating from his shoulder towards his chest, neck and armpit.

'You have to see a doctor as soon as we land,' she said authoritatively. Draco nodded. He still had his face turned away, drawing her attention to the thick cord of neck muscle which traced its path from his collar bone to the hairline behind his ear.

Hermione tugged at her necklace, from which her wand was hanging.

'Hold still while I get this off, will you?' she asked.

Instead, to her surprise, Draco encircled her with his arms, gently tipping her head forwards so that he had better access to her neck. Her hair flooded forwards, brushing against his stomach. With nimble hands he unfastened the chain, his fingertips softly grazing her neck. He then slipped the wand off the chain and handed it to her.

'Thanks,' she said, acutely aware that her skin was still ticklish from his touch.

She returned the wand to its normal size and directed it at Draco's wound. She cast a quick Tergeo, cleaning the blood from his wound as best she could, and priming the site for a Healing Charm.

Draco's breathing was laboured and fresh perspiration coated his neck and torso. Her eyes were drawn to his Adam's apple, which shifted prominently in his throat as he gulped in response to the pain. She couldn't help but notice that his stubble was darker, coarser, than she expected.

She firmly fixed her concentration on the job in hand. She then delicately positioned her wand against his skin and traced a pattern. She moved the wand over his shoulder and round his chest**,** holding his shirt away from his body so that it didn't impede her progress. A fresh, lightweight bandage, spun slowly from the end of her wand, and she fastened it around his body. Draco lifted his arms higher to ensure she had unfettered access to his back.

'Now me,' she said firmly.

Draco adjusted himself back into his clothes.

'What about you?' he said, buttoning up his shirt. He seemed reluctant to look her in the eye.

'I need a Calming Charm, remember? That was the deal.'

'You seem perfectly calm to me.'

'I'm fine when I'm in here,' she gestured to their cramped quarters.

'Stay here then. I'll tell them you're sick.'

'Not so fast!' Hermione said sternly, thrusting her wand into Draco's hand. 'Look! I'm trusting you completely here! I don't let anyone touch my wand. Ever!'

'Not even Ron?'

Especially not Ron, she thought privately.

'Do you even know a Calming Charm?' she asked.

'Of course I do,' he sneered, looking like the insolent teenager she once knew and loathed.

'Then get on with it!' she yelled excitedly.

There was a cough outside the door, which alerted them to the fact that their prolonged presence in this cubicle might well be drawing unwanted attention.

'Quickly, Malfoy. Come on. You can do it,' she pleaded. She couldn't face however many more hours of this. She was already sick and tired of her heightened heart-rate, that sense of sweaty panic constantly lurking beneath her skin, threatening to break out at any given moment.

'Fuck,' Draco said, clutching her wand tightly in his palm. He shut his eyes, mumbling an incantation over and over.

'Just point the bloody wand at me, will you?'

He looked at her. His eyes wide and staring, hot, molten grey.

'Hold still,' he barked. And with one quick flick of her wand he had done it. A cool, soothing balm eased through her. She felt like crying with relief.

Draco, however, had fallen sideways, crashing into the sink. He thrust his hands into his hair, holding his head, groaning in pain. Her wand tumbled to the floor. She quickly retrieved it, before he snapped it with his feet, which were flailing for a firm footing.

'What's wrong with you?' she cried, holding him steady and allowing him to lean on her. He pushed her roughly out of the way and vomited into the toilet.

'Get out of here,' he croaked.

Hermione hastened out, colliding with the attractive brunette woman who Draco had been sitting next to.

'Sorry about the wait,' Hermione said, a little breathlessly. 'My friend, he's sick.'

'Oh dear, poor thing,' she cooed, looking genuinely concerned. 'Should we call one of the attendants?'

'He'll be fine,' Hermione assured her.

Thank god for the Calming Charm, she thought, amazed at the blithe, rested feeling that was humming through her. Under any other circumstances, being cooped up in such close quarters with a puking Draco Malfoy would have spiralled her into paroxysms of skin-crawling horror that would have been hard to recover from.

But why did he have such a visceral reaction to using magic?

It was only when she reclaimed her seat that she noticed that she had walked almost the entire length of business class, wielding her wand. She hoped the Muggles didn't think it was a weapon of some kind.

Draco soon rejoined her. He was pale and wan-looking.

'What was all that about then?' she asked.

'I don't want to talk about it,' he said testily. 'Let's - let's just pretend that none of that happened.'

'You've been banned from using magic, haven't you?' Hermione said snidely. Her suspicions had first been raised by his unwillingness to Apparate, and his use of matches at Malfoy Manor rather than a simple spell, but now his reluctance to use a wand – even his claim to have _lost_ his wand – sealed the deal, as far as she was concerned. This had been his punishment for trading in Dark Artefacts, she felt certain.

'I haven't been banned,' he grouched. 'And I've been itching to hit you with a Langlock for quite some time.'

'Don't lie to me, Draco Malfoy,' she said in hoity-toity tones. 'You've been cursed, haven't you? Anytime you use magic, you get sick. That's it, isn't it?'

'You really are a self-righteous little prig, aren't you?' he said, curling his lip in disdain.

'I'm right though, aren't I?'

'Shut the fuck up, you don't know what you're talking about,' he groaned, closing his eyes. 'On second thoughts,' he said, his eyes snapping open. 'Give me those fucking pills.'

Hermione snapped open her handbag where she had closeted the pills, and handed them over. Draco signaled for a glass of water. The flight attendant hastened over with a plastic beaker in hand.

'What are you doing?'

'Knocking myself out,' he muttered, popping three pills from the packet and scooting them into his mouth. He swallowed them down with a mouthful of water. 'That way I won't have to listen to your endless chuntering drivel.'

'You're so rude.'

'And you're pissing me off. Fuck knows how Ron puts up with you… the guy's got to be a flipping saint.' He pulled a complementary eye-mask out of his British Airways Welcome Pack, which was tucked into the seat-pocket in front of his legs. 'Enjoy your flight, Mrs Weasley. I'll see you in Buenos Aires.'

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK:** "FLY ME AWAY" by GOLDFRAPP**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Thanks to Lupinswolfie, Apurva and Lou.

15


	9. Recoleta

_**A blistering hot day in Buenos Aires... bickering, belligerence and some mutual agreement for Draco and Hermione, but worries too about Draco's wound. **_

**9. Recoleta **

As the flight to Buenos Aires dragged on, Hermione began to see why some wizards had an innate sense of superiority. What took hours using Muggle technology could have taken a matter of minutes with magic.

Instead, she had to watch Draco sleeping the sleep of the dead for what felt like an eternity. Thankfully, she suppressed the temptation to pluck his eyelashes out one lash at a time by succumbing to sleep herself. When she awoke, the sprawling city of Buenos Aires stretched out below them, abutting a vast mud-brown river.

Draco stumbled blearily through Ezeiza Airport, and promptly fell fast asleep again the moment they were sat in a taxi heading towards the city.

It was a blistering hot morning. In her haste to pack, Hermione had clean forgotten that it was summer in South America, and was stupidly over-dressed in jeans and a jumper. The taxi had an aircon unit, rumbling loudly at full-blast, but she was soon sticky with sweat.

She envied Draco, who had stripped down to his shirt in the airport, and looked surprisingly cool, his head lolling against the back seat as he slept. His shirt had slipped open a little, and she could see that the bandage she had conjured on the plane was now stained red. That was a bad sign; further proof that the Medi-magic treatment meted out by St Mungo's hadn't worked.

It was a half hour journey into Buenos Aires. At first, they travelled past a string of dismal-looking suburbs; breezeblock buildings stained black from exhaust fumes and clusters of ramshackle, half-built houses. But before long, the city itself had reared up ahead; tall, gleaming office towers, grand, palatial buildings and oversized billboards lined their route. The road had flowed into a broad, multi-lane avenue, crammed with traffic. At the far end of this avenue was an imposing, white obelisk, proudly pointing skywards.

The taxi soon ducked into a fast-flowing one-way boulevard packed with classy boutiques, its pavements bordered by dusty trees.

They pulled up in front of a swanky-looking mansion.

'Malfoy! Wake up!'

Draco stirred and stretched, blinking rapidly. 'What is it?' he grumbled, smothering a yawn with his hand. 'Where are we?'

'We've arrived,' she said.

Hermione was being ushered out of the taxi by a smartly attired doorman while a bellboy handled their luggage. An unexpected fillip of excitement throbbed through her as she ascended the hotel steps and entered an impressive marble lobby, crowned by a resplendent glass chandelier.

She glanced back at Draco, who lurched out of the taxi and pulled his wallet from his jeans pocket to pay the driver.

'Come on then,' Draco said, seemingly unimpressed with the place. 'Let's check in.'

A uniformed concierge sporting a top hat smiled. 'Welcome Senor, Senora, to the Alvear Palace Hotel.'

Draco ignored him, heading straight for the reception desk.

'We have a booking. The name's Malfoy,' Draco said impatiently, slapping a credit card onto the counter.

'Of course, Senor. Right away, Senor.' The receptionist took the card, directly passing it to an assistant for processing.

Hermione's attention was caught by a small ladies' clothes boutique, which was nestled in one corner of the foyer, half-hidden behind a tall, marble pillar. A sophisticated sales assistant with a forbidding air was smoothing invisible wrinkles from a dusky pink, silk shift dress, which was being modeled by a grey, headless mannequin in the window.

Hermione sighed enviously. She'd never been into pink, but there was something dainty, yet sensuous, about this particular outfit. She imagined the soft, cool slide of the fabric over her skin and shivered. But it was probably far too expensive. And it wasn't the kind of thing she could imagine wearing on a regular basis.

She wandered slowly back to the check-in desk where Draco was waiting for his credit card to be returned. The receptionist passed it back. As Draco slipped it into his wallet, Hermione noted that it was a corporate card - not for Herb Healing - but for Gilgad Inc. Wasn't that Ephraim Golowitz's company? Clearly, he was an even bigger player in Herb Healing than she had first thought.

'You need a doctor,' Hermione reminded Draco.

He looked nonplussed for a moment.

'I'm _not _a trained nurse,' Hermione said sternly.

'We always have a doctor on call, Senor,' the receptionist said with an ingratiating smile. 'Would you like me to send him up to your room?'

'Yes he would,' Hermione said firmly.

'Right you are, Senora. I can have someone with Senor Malfoy within the half hour.'

Draco scowled at Hermione. 'I've got a lunch meeting with a client. You can come along if you like.'

'Thanks, but no thanks,' Hermione said stroppily.

'Ah, Senor Malfoy!' the concierge interrupted, waving a piece of paper excitedly. 'I almost forgot. You have a message.'

Draco quickly scanned the slip of paper.

'It's our contact, Senor Canaro. He requests our company at three o'clock sharp. Says he has crucial information regarding _Los Rojos_.'

'What are Los Rojos?' Hermione asked as they headed into the lift and pressed the button for their floor.

'I have absolutely no idea,' Draco replied.

XXX

Hermione was glad to finally get some privacy. Her room was a little chintzier than she had hoped; old school floral fabrics and a Louis XVI chair with spindly, _faux_-gilted legs. A plasma screen television affixed to the wall looked out of place, but Hermione couldn't help but thrill to the novelty of multi-channel TV, hoping that there was a pay-as-you-go film service on offer too.

Her bathroom was a decent size and pleasantly luxuriant, with a basket of delicious-smelling Hermes toiletries for her perusal.

Moments later she had stripped off, and was reveling in a cool shower, enthusiastically scrubbing the grime of long-distance travel from her hair with a scalp-tingling citrus shampoo.

She roughly towel-dried her hair and donned a thick, white bathrobe, which she had found hanging in her wardrobe.

She had arranged to meet Draco in the lobby bar at half past eleven to review their plans, which gave her almost an hour to collapse onto her king-sized bed and relax.

But first, she wanted to speak to Ron, see how his back was doing, and hopefully hear news on Rose and Hugo. She rifled through her case, plucking the mirror from a side-pocket, rubbed it clean with her sleeve and called Ron's name. There was no answer. She called a second, then a third time. But still no response. She guessed he was at The Burrow and had left his part of the two-way mirror at home.

She eyed the telephone beside her bed enviously. While travel was problematic, there were a few areas, communications being an obvious example she thought, where Muggles were ahead of the game.

Her reverie was interrupted by a sharp knock on her door.

'That better not be you, Malfoy!' she yelled. 'I'm trying to get some downtime here.'

As there was no reply, she hastened to open the door, fearing she had just shouted at a complete stranger.

'You won't want these then,' Draco smirked, tossing an armful of dresses into her arms.

Hermione was struck speechless, with an odd combination of offended irritation and girlish glee. 'You didn't need to,' she eventually said, also wondering if Draco buying her clothes was perhaps a little inappropriate. Would he have bought Ron a cool summer suit in similar circumstances?

Draco barged past her into the room and threw himself heavily onto her spindly-legged Louis XVI. He drummed his fingers furiously on an antique desk, the companion piece to the chair.

'I can't have you meeting my client looking like a dog's dinner.'

'But I'm not coming.'

'Senor Canaro's rearranged for midday, so I've had to move my client to three. Luckily, Canaro's place is close to where I've arranged to meet Miguel – '

'Miguel?'

'Miguel Culebra. Works in consumer pharmaceuticals. You'll like him.'

'I don't plan to meet him,' Hermione said drolly.

His cool, grey eyes appraised her. 'How was your shower?'

'Perfect.'

'So do you like the dresses, or do I take them back?' he said, crossing his arms and glaring at her.

'I hope you got these on expenses, Malfoy,' she murmured, laying the dresses flat on the bed. She instantly recognised them from the boutique, including the dusky pink shift she had admired so fervently. They were skimpier than her usual style, but in this searing heat, that was probably a good thing.

'I wondered if you could change my dressing,' Draco said bluntly. He was already unbuttoning his shirt, which was freshly on.

'I thought we agreed you were having the doctor come to your room?' Hermione said indignantly. So that explained the dresses. They were a bribe for medical services rendered.

'I changed my mind.'

'But it's a doctor you need, Malfoy! Not me.'

'I'm the judge of that,' he said dryly. 'I'll get Senor Canaro to recommend a mediwizard. In the meantime -'

'Oh, I see, Muggle medicine's not good enough for you,' Hermione huffed.

Draco had already removed his shirt and was grimacing with pain as he tried to unravel his bandage by himself. His hand kept brushing against his silver rose pendant, which bounced repeatedly against his chest.

Hermione's eyes were automatically drawn to the faded dark mark tattooed on his right inner arm. It was a little more livid than she expected it to be.

'I really wanted a rest. By myself,' Hermione said sulkily, grabbing her wand from the bedside table and vanishing Draco's bandages with one single swish and a mumbled Evanesco.

'Right,' she breathed, taking a good look at Draco's wound. He flinched as water from her hair, dripped onto his bare chest and stomach. 'I've got clean hands.' She looked him in the eye. 'Can I touch it?'

She didn't wait for an answer, immediately pushing one investigatory finger against the puckered edge of the wound. She could hardly believe she was doing this. Healing had never been her strongest suit, and touching Draco Malfoy in such an intimate way was the last thing she would have ever wanted to do in normal circumstances. But needs must.

Draco laid a hand heavily on her shoulder for support. He grunted with pain.

'That fucking kills.'

'Hold tight,' she said, squeezing the cut open and peering inside. She knew she was hurting him, but she had to check for any foreign objects. _Something_ was stopping this wound from healing.

Draco gasped, clutching onto her shoulder, his nails digging into her skin. 'Couldn't you have cast a numbing spell first? Or is this some perverse form of punishment?' he choked.

His face and chest were now glowing with a faint sheen of sweat, and Hermione could see the movement of his heart, beating hard and fast, beneath his skin.

She hated to admit it, she really did, but there was something ever so slightly thrilling about inflicting this amount of pain on Draco Malfoy. It rather scared her.

She could now see there was something small and knobbly lodged deep inside the wound. It wasn't the remains of gunshot, that was for sure, but something bluish. And it was seeping a translucent liquid – not pus, as she had first thought – in addition to blood.

'This is going to hurt,' she murmured, flicking a quick glance at Draco's contorted face. She gently eased the tip of her finger inside the wound. His skin was scorching hot, and a warm, blood-streaked liquid oozed down the length of her finger.

'You're a fucking sadist, you know that?' Draco panted, a strange gleam in his eye. He was shaking, partly in pain, partly because he had tensed his muscles so tightly in response to Hermione's ministrations.

Hermione delved a little deeper, her finger grazing what felt like a soft grain. Her hand tingled, and then a shooting pain, darted with startling force, like an electric current, through the entire length of her arm, culminating in a fierce ache in her shoulder.

She shot backwards, steadied only by Draco's firm grip of her shoulder.

'What the hell was that all about?'

'It's magic. Definitely magic,' Hermione gasped. The ache was quickly subsiding, but there was a faint fluttering in her chest, as though her heart had missed a beat and was desperately trying to play catch-up.

'Brilliant,' he said hoarsely. 'So this means it wasn't a normal bullet.'

'No. Not Muggle.'

'Why didn't St Mungo's pick up on it? It doesn't make sense, does it?' he complained. 'You all right?' he said to Hermione, who was still reeling from the strange shooting sensation that had almost knocked her over.

'I'm fine,' she breathed, steadying herself and refocusing on the job in hand. She gently eased the tip of her wand into the entrance to the wound and muttered a healing spell. 'Must be pretty powerful stuff though. I doubt this will do much good.'

'Better than nothing.'

'How do you feel?' she asked. 'In yourself?'

Draco seemed momentarily at a loss for words. 'What do you mean?'

'Are you feeling sick? Feverish?'

'A little.'

She felt his forehead. He was warm, but not burning. Nothing too concerning.

Hermione quickly cleaned and dressed the wound using her wand, avoiding his gaze throughout, and suddenly wanting to get this over with as soon as possible. Something about the weight and feel of his hand on her shoulder was beginning to make her feel uncomfortable.

'Good. All done for now. I could do with my downtime,' she said a little more brightly than she actually felt.

'We need to talk,' Draco said shortly, pulling on his shirt. 'Let's go for coffee. There's a nice place close by.'

'Do we have to?'

'You're here in Ron's place, which in view of your skills and intelligence was a fair trade in my book,' Draco said in businesslike tones.

'Was that your idea of a compliment?' Hermione said, feigning shock.

'I'll meet you downstairs in half an hour,' Draco said curtly.

XXX

The hotel was a short walk from Recoleta, an upmarket area famous for its large and elaborate cemetery, populated by Argentina's most celebrated corpses. Hermione had picked up a tourist leaflet in the hotel lobby and was reading as she walked.

'Did you know Eva Peron's tomb is here?' she said. 'I'd love to see it.' She gazed longingly at the wrought iron entrance gates, and the pitched concrete roofs of the mausoleums inside.

'Another time. You're not on bloody holiday,' Draco said scathingly. 'Once we've saved the world, get Weasel-head to bring you,' he added, a smarmy smile on his face.

Draco led her down a series of stone steps, towards a shady area of parkland. Almost immediately the sounds of the city faded. Hermione was surprised to hear bursts of birdsong and the rhythmic drone of a lawnmower. She chased after Draco, who was striding purposefully through the park.

'Where are we going?' she asked Draco, impatient with his inability to communicate relevant information.

'Up here on the left.' He pointed to a busy café situated in the leafy courtyard-garden of a grand Palladian-style building.

They sat down at a table facing the park and ordered coffee.

The sun was beating down on them now. Hermione was relieved to be out of her jeans, and decided that keeping Draco's dresses had probably been a good idea. Her new gauzy aquamarine sundress was a bit too revealing for her liking, but she couldn't deny that she enjoyed the admiring glances she'd received since wearing it.

There was something about this hazy, summer warmth, which made her feel like a wholly new person, melting away her brittle fatigue.

She couldn't say the same for Draco. He was suitably polished in a linen business suit, but he looked worried and tired and was clearly in perpetual pain.

The coffee arrived. Draco spooned a lump of sugar into his cup and stirred it dolefully. 'The man we're going to see, Senor Canaro, is an informant for the Argentine Ministry of Magic. Has his fingers in a lot of pies.'

'You mean he's a crook,' Hermione stated plainly. She should have guessed that Draco's contacts would be suspect.

'I have come across him before in less than honorable circumstances,' Draco admitted. 'But he knows a lot of people.'

'And what does he know about Dark Flux?'

'A contact of his was visiting a friend in Santa Maria. That's a small town in Patagonia. This guy claims there were suspicious deaths amongst Muggleborns last week. Says he was the one to find the first victims.'

'How many died?'

'Three, four.'

'And what makes this Senor Canaro think it was Dark Flux?'

Draco shrugged. 'He can't be sure. We can never be sure. But he has a memory he wants to show us. It's from this contact. If we think it merits further investigation, we'll fly down there tomorrow.'

'We have to fly _again_? It hardly seems worth it when we can't open that bloody case, let alone use the flipping scanner inside it!' Hermione groaned.

'I've been thinking about that,' Draco said. 'What's the difference between _us_, and those Muggle guards at the airport?'

'Well, apart from the obvious…'

'Which is?'

'That we can do magic, of course.'

'Exactly. I think the case can detect our magic, and refuses to work for us. So we have to get a Muggle to open the case instead. Simple.'

'Don't you think it might freak someone out to open a case and find a bloody great gun inside?'

'Maybe… depends on what you offer them in return?'

Hermione sighed. 'Well, that's your department, Malfoy.' She sipped her coffee, shaking her head in exasperation. 'This Senor Canaro better have a spare Draught of Peace handy. I don't want to go through that little farce with my wand again, thank you very much.'

Draco grinned. 'I'm sure he'll be able to rustle up a little something. He's a former grandmaster potioneer.'

'Can he also tell us who to speak to when we get to Santa Maria? I don't want to arrive blind.'

'It's a small place. We won't struggle to find witnesses.'

'I hate feeling unprepared,' Hermione grumbled. 'We need a strategy.'

'Easy. We're checking for similarities between what happened here and other incidents.'

'But how will we know? Formal records of suspected Dark Flux cases are few and far between.'

'That's what we're here to rectify. We need to find a way to sift out the Muggle-made disasters from the Dark Flux. We need an objective understanding of what these sudden death clusters _actually look like_… and that means the bodies too.'

'Are you serious?' Hermione asked, spluttering on her coffee.

'Most definitely. You told me last week that you hadn't heard of a rash connected to Dark Flux. I'd heard the opposite.'

'Well. I can see the sense in that I guess. But we should also check out environmental factors, the weather, any particular magical rituals. There has to be some kind of correlating sequence of events behind these outbreaks?'

'Maybe even a person or people?' Draco sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

'We definitely need access to some good old _Muggle_ data,' Hermione said, ignoring Draco as she warmed to her theme. 'Weather forecasts. Crop rotations. Lunar Cycles…'

'We've got a guy doing all that back home.'

'News broadcasts…'

'I said we've got someone doing that stuff already! You don't know him. Works in the lab at Herb Healing.'

'So… our main job is to interview survivors?' Hermione said, a little deflated. Deep down she still preferred 'library' work.

'And the bodies. Don't forget the bodies, Mrs Weasley,' Draco said, with a withering smile. 'That's one thing I definitely need _you_ for.'

'I'm a lawyer, not a mediwitch. I thought – or at least I hoped – we'd established that.'

'I presume you have your Ministry of Magic pass with you? No self-respecting workaholic like yourself would ever be without it.'

'Yes… but we're in Argentina, Malfoy. I can't just swan into a Muggle morgue, waving my Ministry of Magic I.D. I'd be carted off to the nearest loony bin.'

Draco chuckled. 'Santa Maria's a wizarding town. Your credentials will be instantly recognisable. Just say you're conducting research on behalf of the British Ministry and you'll have an _Open Sesame_ to wherever you want to go.' Draco took a deep sip of his coffee, watching her reaction over the rim of his cup.

'You don't need me at all,' Hermione said, with an injured sniff, which was actually for show. She wanted to draw him out further. 'You could have transfigured a Ministry pass. Or pretended to be an Auror. You could have used polyjuice to impersonate anybody you wanted.'

Draco laughed. 'No, Hermione. I wanted _you_. You and your big fucking brain, and your research skills, and your ridiculous Gryffindor bravado.'

'You mean you wanted _Ron_, seeing as it's meant to be _him_ sitting here, not me,' Hermione said, tight-lipped.

Draco shrugged. 'Yeah. But like I said earlier. You're a fair trade.'

Draco signaled to the waiter for the bill. 'We'd best get going.' He then flicked a latch on his briefcase and to Hermione's immense surprise, pulled out a mobile phone, which he checked for messages before slipping it into his jacket pocket.

'Better _Mugglefy_ myself before I forget,' Draco grumbled. Hermione guessed this 'phone' was for the benefit of his business client later that afternoon, and not his own personal amusement.

'What a shocker!' she said, her eyes round with laughter. 'Draco Malfoy with a _Muggle_ phone! Your ancestors must be turning in their graves!'

'I have to do business with Muggles,' he replied snippily. 'And they'd never get the hang of using owls.'

'I can't get my head round this, Malfoy,' Hermione sighed. 'I can't believe you spend so much time with Muggles, when you loathe them.'

'I don't mind them,' Draco said breezily. 'They're harmless enough.'

'Oh, of course they are,' Hermione said, rolling her eyes. 'Such sweet, dear little creatures.'

'Now you're just being silly,' Draco sneered. 'Of course there's always exceptions to the rule. But on the whole, Muggles are too infantile to be truly dangerous to us wizards.'

XXX

They continued their journey through the park, the sun high in the sky, warming their backs as they walked. They followed a path, which ran alongside a busy thoroughfare, leading away from Recoleta.

'Too _infantile_ to be _dangerous_? Could you be anymore patronising?' Hermione shrilled. 'You're talking about the vast majority of human beings on this planet, do you realize that?'

Draco's eyes glittered strangely. Whether it was cruelty or amusement, she couldn't tell.

'Of course I do.'

'So you don't think world wars, nuclear weapons and, oh yes, impending environmental catastrophe aren't _dangerous_, then? All caused by Muggles,' Hermione argued.

'And, arguably, all _infantile_. See, you're making my case for me, aren't you?'

They had left the parkland, and were now walking along a pavement headed towards a pedestrian crossing that spanned a busy avenue. The roar of traffic was unexpected after the relative tranquility of the park.

'You see, Malfoy,' Hermione yelled, raising her voice to be heard over the traffic. 'It's that kind of ignorant, black-and-white assumption that you have about Muggles, which makes you such a _prick_. How can you call Muggles infantile, when _you_ are the most infantile man I have ever met?'

'If you're basing your opinion of me as infantile from when we were actually _children, _then that's hardly fair, is it now?' Draco shouted in return, jabbing a button at the pedestrian crossing. They waited for the lights to change.

'I'm talking about _now_, this instance,' Hermione said peevishly. 'You call Muggles infantile, and then fail to offer any real evidence to support your argument.'

'We're not in the fucking Wizengamot, Hermione,' Draco growled.

The lights had changed and cars had stopped, enabling Hermione and Draco to cross the road. A woman in an open-top cabriolet was applying her lipstick in a small mirror, and being wolf-whistled by a couple of guys sitting in the back of an open truck. They pulled faces at her, licking their lips and pouting, playfully cupping their breasts.

Hermione's heart sank.

'See what I mean?' Draco said. 'Muggles never grow up. Most of them can't even dress properly.'

'There are plenty of Muggles who have to grow up very fast indeed! And their _dress sense_ has very little to do with it,' Hermione was flushed with anger. 'There's children out there who have to work from an early age to keep their families fed. Single mothers bringing up kids on their own.'

'And you'd know all about those people, wouldn't you, Hermione?' Draco snarled. 'You and your desperately middle-class Mummy and Daddy, living in one of the nicer, more salubrious parts of London.'

'How the hell do _you_ know anything about my Muggle life?'

Hermione seethed, hating how he enjoyed baiting her like this. She could feel his buoyant glee radiating off him in waves.

They were now entering a leafy enclave of large, wealthy houses, many sporting embassy flags. The streets here were cool and shaded.

'I'm surprised you don't have more empathy with Muggles, since you're banned from using magic,' Hermione countered, considering this a particularly pertinent blow.

Draco shook his head wearily. 'That's not it at all, Hermione. You really don't know what you're talking about.'

They walked rapidly, crossing the road, before turning left into a short side street, which led onto a tree-lined crescent.

'Anyway, those _infantile_ guys acting out back there… that wasn't about being Muggle. That was just a _male _thing… that was about sex, which wizards happen to have too, you know,' Hermione said prissily.

'A lot less than Muggles,' Draco said.

'Now there you go again, Malfoy, spouting unfounded rubbish, as always.'

'Come on, you know I'm right. Muggle society is much more liberal than ours, and I don't just mean in that sappy, bleeding heart kind of way that really pisses me off. But when it comes to sex, wizards are kind of… strait-laced. It's like living in the 1950s or something.'

'Maybe wizards have stronger moral values?' Hermione said haughtily.

'Now that's priceless, it really is. Is that what you really think?'

Draco burst into loud, ringing laughter, prompting a murder of crows, plucking at carrion strewn across the asphalt road, into sudden flight.

They were walking deeper and deeper into this quiet, residential area. The sound of traffic from the main avenue was fast receding. The trees and hedges were more closely-knit here, their foliage denser, darker, guarding the grand houses and gardens from prying eyes. It was quite chilly on these shaded streets. Unconsciously, Hermione had folded her arms close to her body, and was stroking her arms for warmth.

'You want to think that's true, but you don't believe it for one moment, Hermione. But hold on to your little fantasy, if it makes you feel safe,' Draco said. 'I'm not talking about sex here, by the way.'

'I know,' Hermione said in a tight, little voice.

'When it comes to sex, of course, you make the perfect little witch.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' Hermione was outraged.

'Just that… you are possibly the most repressed person I have ever met in my entire life,' Draco declared.

'How dare you? You know nothing about my sex life!'

'And I bet poor Ron doesn't either,' Draco smirked.

Right. This was too much. Hermione had to ball her fists tightly to contain herself from punching him in the face.

'All that repressed sexuality bubbling away inside,' Draco chortled. 'Maybe helps explain your spiky aggression…'

'What spiky aggression?' Hermione asked tetchily.

'The type of behaviour you're displaying right now actually.'

'Oh shut up, you prat!'

'I think we're here,' Draco said, pointing at a tall, thin house, with long, peeling black shutters.

They silently studied the house on the other side of the road.

Hermione realized further argument was futile. Once Draco's focus had shifted, that was that. She'd never known someone so adept at compartmentalising.

'Right then. Let's think about this before we go in,' Draco said under his breath, almost as though he feared they might be overheard by the tall privet hedge which framed the garden. 'We want to see the memory, but do we both go into the Pensieve together, or one at a time?'

'You don't really trust this man, do you?' Hermione said, suddenly filled with an uneasy dread.

'On past form? Not a lot,' he said in a low whisper.

'Don't forget, we have to ask about Los Rojos too,' Hermione said.

'Los Rojos... _The Reds_,' Draco said pensively. 'I doubt he's brought us all this way to discuss English Football.'

Hermione, however, had paled, suddenly tight-chested, remembering that faint flash of red, little more than a blur at the edge of her vision, that she had sensed in her back garden.

'What is it?' Draco asked sharply.

'When you were shot. Did you _see_ anything? Or… or maybe not quite see, but _sense_ something, sense an image?'

'Or a colour?' Draco said, his eyes moving rapidly from side to side as he recalled the moment. 'Yes, yes I did.'

'It was red, wasn't it?'

'Yes, it was. I assumed it was just the shock of it all. And Ron? The same?'

Hermione nodded. 'And me too. It sort of popped into my mind. Almost like I felt it.'

'You_ felt _a colour?' Draco looked at her quizzically.

'Yes. No. I – I don't know how to explain it. Just before I entered the house. Just before I found Ron.'

Draco was staring at her fixedly. He gently laid a hand on her shoulder, flicking a glance at the tall, thin house with its long black shutters.

'Hermione. Do you feel it now?' he whispered urgently.

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"BITTER SWEET SYMPHONY" by THE VERVE**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Thanks to Apurva & Lou.

7


	10. Los Rojos

**Hermione and Draco meet the mysterious Senor Canaro and are exposed to the true horrors of Dark Flux. Meanwhile Draco receives some devastating news...**

**10. Los Rojos**

Hermione closed her eyes, clearing her mind of all thoughts.

'No strange reds to report,' she said assuredly. She snapped her eyes wide open. 'Not that it means anything, of course. There's got to be a logical explanation for what happened.'

'I wouldn't be so sure of that,' Draco said. 'You might have some kind of latent psychic ability. A form of _synthesiser_, or whatever it is the Muggles like to call it.'

'That's Synesthesia, Malfoy, and it's a neurological disorder,' Hermione said snippily. 'Nothing at all to do with Seers and all that rubbish.'

Draco glanced at the tall, dark house with the peeling, black shutters, where Senor Canaro lived. 'That's as may be, but something about this place gives me the creeps.'

Hermione had to agree. Even the air seemed thicker, more stagnant here.

They rang the doorbell and waited impatiently.

A house-elf wearing nothing but a scruffy blue dishcloth answered the door and quickly ushered them inside. 'Senor Canaro awaits you,' the elf squeaked haplessly. He eyed them both with such a pitying, mournful expression on his careworn face that Hermione was instantly inclined to think badly of his owner.

Inside, the house was much larger than its outward appearance belied. It was also surprisingly noisy, alive with the cacophonous din of birdsong emanating from what Hermione presumed had to be an aviary located further indoors.

The hallway was dark and dusty, so much so that Hermione had to suppress a coughing fit at the very moment when Senor Canaro hastened towards her, hand outstretched in greeting.

He was a tall, spindly-looking man with an oversized egg-shaped head capped by a scraggy-looking mop of hair and a long, knotted beard.

'_Buenos Dias_!' Senor Canaro exclaimed. 'I am so glad to see you. I have moved our meeting to this hour because I have most important business this afternoon. I hope this time is agreeable for you both?'

Hermione and Draco both nodded polite assent and allowed him to usher them over the threshold into a long, dusty corridor.

'We won't take up much of your time, Senor Canaro,' Draco said.

'Of course, you are here for the memory, no?' Canaro said, addressing Draco. 'And I have also some _information_ which may be of interest to you.' He now looked at Hermione, his eyes narrowing quizzically. 'And your companion.'

'Oh, of course, please excuse me,' Draco apologised. 'This is Mrs Weasley. You were expecting her husband. But he is indisposed.'

Canaro grinned, baring a set of twisted, yellow-stained teeth and blackened gums. 'A fair substitute, no?'

Draco smiled weakly in response while Hermione could barely suppress the urge to open the front door and run away.

Canaro led them along the corridor, turning left into a large bright room with a pitched glass ceiling. The sunshine streamed through this window in a most unforgiving manner, highlighting the ankle-deep detritus of old food and bird droppings on the floor. Hermione could barely stop herself from retching at the fetid stench which assailed her nostrils.

The room was adorned with a plethora of bird and animal cages; some were strung from the ceiling or walls, or were balancing on rickety sideboards and shelves. The piercing clamour and chatter of birdsong that greeted them in this room was almost deafening.

There was a rectangular black table placed in the middle of the room, weighed down with green glass jars containing various liquids and powders of dubious origin. Hermione couldn't help but recoil at one large bell jar full of snakeheads, while another contained a pulpy bubbly mixture which she eventually identified as frogspawn.

The table was also strewn with crumbs of bread and a rind of blue cheese. There was a putrid-looking ham-bone slapped on a tin plate. Its meat was tinged petrol-green and host to a cluster of black flies. Hermione realized, too late, that she was eyeing this disarray with unabashed distaste and Canaro was watching her with alert, beady eyes.

Canaro roughly swept his arm across the table, dispersing breadcrumbs and cheese rind onto the floor and slapped his hand on two chairs which he had pushed closer to the table, bidding Hermione and Draco sit down.

'Thanks, Senor Canaro, but we'd rather stand,' Draco said in a voice of cold civility. Hermione's mouth twitched in amusement. She guessed she could rely on pristine, fastidious Draco to be as repelled as she was by this scenario.

'Quite right,' Canaro beamed. 'No time for the relaxation, no? Let's to business. _Directamente_.'

'The memory? Relating to this reported outbreak of Dark Flux?' Draco said in clipped, business tones. 'That would be a good starting point.'

'_Si, Si, Senor. Espera un momento_,' Canaro said, reaching for a small glass vial with silvery liquid swilling inside which was balanced precariously on top of a high sloping shelf.

He brushed against Hermione who had to quickly turn away to avoid gagging at the acrid stench of old body odour that assailed her nostrils. She collided with a low bench, springing back in alarm as her hands alighted on a glass box glutted with thick-bodied, shiny black spiders. She crashed heavily into Draco who was standing behind her, inadvertently crushing his toes. He winced in pain.

'I'm so sorry,' she whimpered, steadying herself with one hand on the table which was greasy to the touch. She instantly retracted her hand, wiping it vigorously on the back of a chair.

'_Aqui esta_,' Canaro mumbled, grappling with the slippery vial which slid slowly from his grasp. Draco darted forwards, hands outstretched, only just catching the memory before it fell to the floor.

'Great. Where's the Pensieve?' Draco said sternly, tightly clutching the vial.

'Follow me,' Canaro chortled, leading them back to the hallway, then down a dark corridor to a small, shadowy enclave, which hosted a granite plinth supporting a black marble Pensieve.

'Senor Malfoy. Please excuse my appalling rudeness for not asking after your father's health?' Canaro said, baring his teeth yet again in an unctuous grin. 'He has not been well, no?'

'He's much improved,' Draco said, tracing the runes decorating the rim of the Pensieve with his index finger. 'Thanks for asking.'

'It's just that I hear from our old associates that he has become quite the stranger these days.' Canaro fixed his beady-eyed gaze on Draco, who continued to find the Pensieve's hieroglyphic symbols an object of intense fascination.

'This memory, Senor Canaro,' Hermione interceded brightly, 'was made by whom, exactly?'

Canaro sucked his teeth thoughtfully. 'A Senor Asusto. He is a _Porteno_ – which is to say he is from Buenos Aires – but for much of the year, he lives in a town called El Calafate which is close to where the incident took place.' He emphasised 'incident' with lugubrious relish, again exposing his stained teeth and some blackened gum for good measure. Hermione was beginning to feel a little queasy and was eager to volunteer first to enter the Pensieve, just to escape the sight of him.

From the look on Draco's face, however, he seemed equally keen to escape Canaro's attentions.

'So how did you procure this memory?' Hermione asked. 'This Senor Asusto, is he a friend?'

'He is a business associate of many years. He approached me with the memory because he was feeling very burdened, you see, by what he saw and experienced in Santa Maria. He hoped I would ensure the _relevant authorities _on the matter were informed,' Canaro explained.

'Is he still in Buenos Aires?' Draco asked. 'Can we speak with him?'

Canaro vigorously shook his head. 'He had to leave Argentina on urgent business. He was here just one short hour. Time only to give me the memory and a single cup of _Mate_.'

'That's a shame,' Draco said ruefully. 'Do you know when he'll be back?'

Canaro shook his head, a regretful expression on his face.

'So has the Ministry here in Argentina, already sent a delegation to Santa Maria?' Hermione asked.

'I've no idea. I certainly haven't told them about the incident,' Canaro said, 'and I can't speak for Senor Asusto.'

So just who were the 'relevant authorities' Canaro was charged with informing? Hermione wondered dubiously. The fact that Draco seemed wholly unperturbed by this development indicated that he knew exactly whom Canaro was referring to.

Canaro took the memory in the vial from Draco, unstopped it and swirled the silvery liquid into the Pensieve.

'As for what Senor Asusto saw in Santa Maria that fateful day, it is perhaps better you see for yourself… but I should warn you, Senora,' he rasped, placing a leathery hand on Hermione's arm. 'This memory is… _muy desagradable_.'

Hermione forced a brave smile, trying to extricate her arm from his clasp as subtly as possible.

'I've probably seen worse.'

Senor Canaro blinked slowly, a sorrowful, reptilian expression on his face. '_Quizas_, Senora Weasley. Perhaps. As you choose.'

Draco turned to Hermione. 'Ready?'

Ready for what? Hermione thought. Surely he wasn't entering the memory _with_ her?

To her surprise, as she plunged her face into the Pensieve, she felt his hand close around her own.

XXX

They found themselves standing at a deserted crossroads on the outskirts of a small ramshackle town, which appeared to be little more than a collection of single-storey scrubby houses with red-tiled roofs. There was one main thoroughfare wending its way through the town, but not a single vehicle or other living creature in sight.

'I'm guessing this is Santa Maria,' Draco said, screwing his nose up in dismay. 'Let's hope this is all one big misunderstanding. I don't want to be spending any time here if I can help it.'

'What are _you_ doing here?' Hermione said in sharp tones, rounding on Draco. 'I thought you didn't trust this Canaro guy?'

'I just want this over with,' Draco said tersely, 'the sooner the better.'

'We were meant to watch out for each other!'

'And this must be the mysterious Senor Asusto,' Draco said, ignoring her protestations.

He pointed to a pale, young man with greased black hair, pinched features, and an impatient scowl. Heaving a forlorn-sounding sigh, the young man sniffed the overcast skies.

'I think he's been stood up,' Draco declared.

'Can't say I'm surprised,' Hermione mumbled to herself, thinking that he was a most unattractive-looking young man. Draco grinned.

The pale young man reluctantly trudged into the town heading for a café-bar, 'Bar Santa Maria.'

There was a sign positioned outside the bar announcing it was 'Abierto' which Hermione assumed meant open. This seemed far from true, however, judging by the bar's lack of customers. Indeed, the bar, the street, the entire town, seemed deserted.

Hermione cast a quick glance at their surroundings. There was a grey, monochrome quality to the place. The only sound was a faint whistle of wind whipping dust-clouds and sparse clumps of vegetation along the empty street. It reminded her of an archetypal scene from an old Western movie. The type of uneasy scene which invariably signaled the calm before the storm.

The greasy-haired young man seemed similarly concerned by the lack of life. He tentatively pushed open the bar's thick glass door which creaked loudly in the weighty silence.

Hermione and Draco followed him into the bar. As they did, however, there was a brief swoosh of silvery fog which momentarily distorted their view. And then the scene was as it was before, except Senor Asusto now seemed a little more aggravated and was calling out in Spanish.

But there was no response. He called again, a nervous frown on his face.

'Did you clock the fog?' Draco muttered to Hermione.

'It might mean this memory's unreliable. Perhaps it's been falsified?' she said, instantly suspicious of Senor Asusto.

'Or, it could simply indicate that Senor Asusto was so traumatised by what he saw that he hasn't been able to think straight since,' Draco countered.

'You think so?' Hermione whispered. 'But there's nothing here.'

'Oh yes there is,' Draco said with a heavy sigh. Hermione couldn't decide if he was sad to see the dead woman lying on the floor behind the bar or disappointed that this probably meant this was a case requiring further investigation after all.

Senor Asusto had also spotted the dead woman, and had hastened to her side. He was breathing heavily, his eyes darting frantically around the bar, surveying the empty tables and chairs and deathly still fruit machine as though he half-expected her assailant to leap out and grab him.

Hermione inched closer to the corpse, grimacing at the sight of it, yet knowing that this was precisely the reason she was inside this memory.

The young woman was lying prostrate on the ground, her body contorted, her eyes wide and staring. Her lips were curled back, giving her a strangely feral appearance, and her face, arms and legs – any exposed flesh – were covered in livid purple welts which oozed a black, tar-like substance. Most peculiar of all, Hermione thought, was the distinct bright blue glow that seemed to lurk beneath the dead girl's skin.

'That's gross,' Draco said. He looked at Hermione, his eyes blazing with indignation. 'See? You said there was no rash with Dark Flux victims. What the hell are those ugly great welts all over her?'

'Haven't you also noticed she's turned _blue_, Malfoy?' Hermione snapped in petulant tones. 'You never mentioned _that_ as a sign of Dark Flux, did you? It's a kind of obvious marker.'

'The Paris outbreak. 2008. The victims were blue,' Draco stated.

'And since then?'

'There was another case, but I can't remember where. Maybe a couple actually. The skin discoloration was attributed to environmental hazards. I'll dig out the files when we get back home.'

Hermione shuddered. _Home_. It felt very far away. Far away from this poor, dead woman and this ghastly memory.

It all seemed too much for Senor Asusto. The pale, young man began shaking in distress, staring disconsolately at the woman on the floor at his feet.

'Ana,' he whispered hoarsely.

'He knows her!' Hermione gasped.

'Maybe she's the one who stood him up,' Draco said in a deadpan voice which sounded distant and strange. Hermione could barely make out his face beside her.

There was another silvery blur, a disorienting scrunching of the scene before them.

'Definitely something off here,' Draco grumbled.

The fog lifted at the precise moment when the pale, young man seemed to turn around, staring straight at them. Hermione squeaked in surprise.

'It's like he can see us!'

'Of course he can't!'

'Oh God, oh no!' Hermione shrilled. 'Look!' she said breathlessly, pointing a few metres beyond the woman.

There was an overturned basket, a pink blanket spilling onto the floor beside it. Hermione could see what she feared was a small, cold blue arm, poking out of the blanket.

Hermione felt herself totter. Her throat was suddenly dry and she couldn't hear what Draco was saying to her, above the whooshing roar of blood rushing to her head. She thought she might be sick.

'What's that?' she groaned. She felt rooted to the spot, hardly caring that Senor Asusto had brushed past her; a ghost in a dream, which was bubbling and fraying slightly at the edges, like singed, silvery celluloid.

Draco was of sterner stuff, she thought, or maybe more cold-blooded. Or maybe he was already convinced that this memory wasn't real. He approached the basket, and knelt down before it, examining its contents. He was very still.

'Is that… is that what I think it is?' Hermione asked in low tones.

Draco finally turned to face her. 'I'm afraid it is,' he said mournfully.

Hermione was struggling to stifle a hysterical sob clawing at her throat for release. But she hated the idea of breaking down in front of Draco, and it was this dread of losing control that enabled her to master her emotions.

'Can we be sure? I mean, there's a good chance this memory is a fake, isn't there?' Hermione hoped it was. She prayed it was.

'It's possible,' Draco said in a quiet voice.

Hermione looked at Senor Asusto who was now seated at a table, his head in his hands.

'I can't believe he didn't even _look_ at the… the baby,' Hermione said, barely able to look herself. The sight was just too heart wrenching. Even if this wasn't real, even if this was a fiction, she feared the images of the dead woman and child she had seen in Senor Asusto's memory would be imprinted on her mind forever. She felt she was drowning, falling into a deep, sad emptiness, which threatened to overwhelm her. She thought of her own children, their pink, happy faces, warm with life, and her eyes drifted inexorably to the upturned basket.

'I want to get out of here,' Hermione moaned, aware of a gnawing ache inside of her. _I want to go home_, she thought inwardly.

At that very moment, the memory swirled and swooped, and they were thrown back into the comparatively welcome reality of Senor Canaro's shadowy house with its grim occupant awaiting them, a fixed, rictus grin on his face.

Hermione had to suppress an urge to charge at him, bowling him over, slapping that stupid smile from his face.

'Gracias, Senor Canaro,' Draco said. 'That was very… instructive.'

Senor Canaro nodded, his crinkled, reptilian eyes blinking slowly, surely. 'Reports say that three Muggleborns died that day. But the baby isn't listed as one of them.'

'Why not?' Hermione asked in thin, querulous tones.

'It was probably Muggle spawn from El Calafate,' Canaro leered.

Hermione was struggling to beat down the red-hot rage bubbling up inside of her. Draco glared her a warning.

'So where is this baby now? Has it been returned to the Muggle authorities?' Draco asked in cool tones.

Canaro shrugged. 'I presume that it would still be in the morgue in Santa Maria. Nobody has confirmed its existence, which means nobody has claimed it, even though it must have come to Santa Maria with somebody.' He grinned. 'A baby cannot walk into town all by itself now, can it?'

Hermione was horror-struck. She felt like something was crumpling deep inside of her, bearing down on her like a cold, leaden weight. How could they talk about such a thing in this detached, facile manner?

'Frankly, Senor Canaro, we're not convinced this memory was wholly authentic,' Draco said curtly. 'There were serious flaws in the imaging. Blurring, fogginess. All signs of memory modification. Senor Asusto didn't even acknowledge the baby even though he was standing just a few feet from it, so for all we know, the baby was a false memory implant.'

'It is possible, anything is possible,' Canaro said nonchalantly. 'Although I myself have not tampered with it, if that is what you are thinking Senor Malfoy!'

'I'm not accusing you –'

'You may ask your father. Senor Canaro is a man to be trusted, no?'

'I – I don't doubt it, sir,' Draco said in appeasing tones. 'But did you watch Senor Asusto make the memory?'

'No. No, I did not. He arrived with the memory. _Una cosa hecha. Y ya esta_.'

Hermione suddenly felt nauseous and clammy. She had a desperate desire to be alone. Until this moment, she hadn't really understood what they were dealing with; the true evil of Dark Flux and what it could do to its innocent victims.

She returned to Senor Canaro's potions room, overcoming her squeamishness at her surroundings if only to be bathed in bright, white sunlight, vanquishing the gloom of the darkened hallway. She could hear the droning murmur of voices in the distance. Hopefully, Draco was asking salient questions, arming them for their trip into Patagonia. She had no doubt now that they would go, if only to prove or disprove the veracity of Senor Asusto's memory.

Minutes later, the two men had followed her into the potions room.

Canaro eyed her beadily. 'I warned you, Senora Weasley. I told you that memory was not a place for women. Especially a woman with children, no?'

Canaro clicked his fingers and his slovenly elf appeared.

'_Mate_,' he demanded. He looked to his guests. 'Would you like a hot beverage? Tea or coffee, perhaps? Senora Weasley, you look quite pale. A piping hot cup of tea might be of benefit.'

'I'm quite alright,' Hermione said stiffly. 'Gracias Senor.'

After some pressure, Draco accepted the offer of ice-cold lemonade. The elf returned promptly with his drink.

'There is one thing I _would_ like, Senor Canaro,' Hermione said. 'I need to send a message abroad.'

Senor Canaro gestured to the myriad birdcages strung up around the room. 'You may choose any bird you like, but if it is very long-distance, I also have a Great Horned Owl – it is a very special bird I can assure you - who might best suit your purpose.'

Canaro summoned his elf again and rattled off a list of instructions. The elf beckoned Hermione, who followed him up a long, steep staircase. The staircase led to a landing devoid of any furniture, its wooden floorboards old and creaky underfoot.

A large, handsomely marked owl with round orange eyes, sitting in a brass cage, was watching them approach, a look of undisguised contempt on its face.

Hermione was offered a piece of parchment and a quill by the elf and set to writing a note to Ron.

She told him that she had been forced to fly to Argentina, which had been a purgatorial experience, but that the hotel she was staying in was very grand, and partly made up for the flight. She made light of Draco's problematic wound but urged Ron to beef up security at home and at The Burrow. She then informed him about Senor Asusto's memory, sparing him the gory details, and suggested he comb through the available research regarding Dark Flux incidents to find out exactly where and when any blue-tinged skin colouring had been noted on the victims. Finally, she told him to hug the kids for her, to tell them how much she loved and missed them.

XXX

'It was one day after the Dark Flux outbreak that the six men arrived in Santa Maria,' Canaro was saying to Draco when Hermione returned to the potions room.

'All wearing bright red robes, you say?' Draco looked puzzled by this. He was fastening his shirt, indicating that he had shown Canaro his wound.

'I agree, Senor Malfoy. It is not the best way to avoid undue attention, no?'

'They sound like a religious order,' Hermione said, keen to contribute to the conversation which she guessed concerned the mysterious Los Rojos.

In truth, she was enormously relieved to hear that Los Rojos referred to real-life men and not inexplicable flashes of colour. She always preferred cold, hard facts to intangibles. Clearly, the red flashes both Ron and Draco had witnessed at the time of their attacks were these same red robes and the wizards wearing them. Draco presumably had a split second to catch sight of his attacker before being shot, while Ron had been quickly blinded by the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.

Of course this didn't explain her own red flash… but she didn't want to think about that just now.

'There is something, perhaps, in what you say, Senora Weasley,' Canaro said, touching his nose in a knowing manner. 'I think Los Rojos are followers of this Dark Wizard who lives in the mountains.'

Draco silently mouthed 'Jeroboam' to Hermione.

'And there is something else _muy raro_, very peculiar, to take into account here,' Canaro said. '_Estos Rojos_. They always know exactly where to go to ask their questions and take their photographic images.'

'So do they carry cameras or some other type of machine?' Hermione asked, fishing for information that might indicate that Los Rojos were using 'scanners.'

'_No se_, Senora Weasley,' Canaro said. 'What type of machine do you mean?'

'Machines that look like guns?'

Canaro's wrinkled brow was puckered in confusion. 'I've not heard of this. All I know is that wherever there is an incident, they are there. They troop into town the next day or the day after that. This was what happened last month.'

'In Bolivia?' Draco asked.

'And in Ecuador. Last year.'

Draco raised his eyebrows in surprise. _Ecuador_ was clearly news to him.

Hermione chilled at this. If these cases were proven incidents of Dark Flux, then this was a much more common occurrence than she had ever been led to believe – and this scared the life out of her. Not to mention the more immediate fact that so much Dark Flux activity was being reported here, in South America. This made_ her_, as a Muggleborn, feel peculiarly vulnerable. Until today, she'd never truly thought of Dark Flux as something that could target and kill her. This had changed since entering that Pensieve.

'And are witnesses positive that Los Rojos aren't already in place _before_ the Dark Flux strikes?' Draco asked, a little warily Hermione thought. Was he already fearing it had been found and weaponised? Were Los Rojos the perpetrators?

'There is no sign of Los Rojos until after _los muertos_,' Canaro said firmly.

Of course, this was only according to his own limited knowledge, Hermione thought. What could _he_ know? Bolivia, Ecuador, even Patagonia were well over a thousand, if not many thousands of miles from Buenos Aires.

'So how do you get to know about these attacks?' she asked.

'I have my sources,' Canaro said smugly.

'If it hadn't been for Senor Asusto, would any of us know about Santa Maria?' Draco said, swilling the dregs of his lemonade slowly around the glass.

'It is in a very remote region,' Canaro said. 'As you will see for yourself.'

His eyes alighted on a small, blue bottle which was placed on a shelf behind where Hermione was standing. 'Senora Weasley,' he said, gesturing to the bottle. 'A Draught of Peace. Ready for your journey. Senor Malfoy has informed me of your condition.'

'Oh. Thanks,' Hermione said, her heart sinking a little at the thought of a flight to Patagonia.

'As for your other little problem, Senor Malfoy,' Canaro said. 'The mediwizard I would recommend to you is not in town today. Maybe when you return from Patagonia you can pay him a visit?'

Draco frowned in frustration. A flicker of pain scuttled involuntarily across his face. Clearly, any beneficial effects from the healing spell Hermione had cast on him earlier that day were wearing off.

'But I have a spare bottle of the potion I recommended to you,' Canaro continued in brighter tones. 'It might provide some small relief.'

'Thanks,' Draco growled. He pocketed the brown, glass bottle Canaro offered him without even glancing at it.

'I think you should try a little now,' Canaro said, his dark eyes twinkling, almost enjoying Draco's discomfort, Hermione thought.

Reluctantly, Draco removed the stopper, screwing his nose up at the smell of the potion inside, wondering if he trusted Canaro enough to actually taste the stuff. He cast a last, desperate glance in Hermione's direction and gulped back a mouthful of the potion, trying not to gag in the process. He then held his breath, waiting to see if he had survived. Once it was clear he had, he exhaled loudly, relief shining from his face.

'Well done, Senor Malfoy,' Canaro said. 'It is imperative you keep taking the potion. There is a very virulent magic inside of you. I can sense your blood crying out in pain.'

Draco grinned mirthlessly. 'That's cheerful.'

'Not really,' Canaro said bluntly, not understanding Draco's sarcasm. 'It is probable you will die unless you find somebody who can help you.'

'Oh. Right,' Draco said, momentarily lost for words. His face had drained of colour. 'Have I… got long?' he asked hesitantly.

Hermione found she was holding her breath, chilled by Canaro's words and off-handed manner.

Canaro beamed, baring his ragged gums. 'You have enough time to get the help you need, Senor Malfoy,' he said, nodding his head sagely. 'But I am _confundido, _bewildered by your condition. This type of magic is not supposed to hurt you.'

'Why's that?' Draco asked, a little shakily. Canaro fixed his reptilian, beady gaze on Draco's pale face and smirked.

'I think you know that already, don't you, Senor Malfoy?'

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"SPELLBOUND" by SIOUXSIE & THE BANSHEES**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Thanks to Apurva & Lou.

7


	11. In Patagonia

_**Investigations into mysterious deaths in Patagonia take a deadly turn for Hermione and Draco...**_

**11. In Patagonia**

The glaring afternoon sun and stultifying heat came as a shock after spending close to two hours inside Senor Canaro's chill, dismal house. Hermione and Draco walked slowly through the leafy streets in deep silence.

'I think we should postpone this trip to Patagonia,' Hermione urged. 'You clearly need to see a mediwizard as soon as possible.'

'Senor Canaro said it can wait,' Draco replied, with an air of affected nonchalance.

'But for how long?'

Draco smirked sarcastically. 'Your concern for my welfare is very touching, Hermione, but I'm sure I can last another day or two before keeling over and dying, okay?

'Look, Malfoy, unlike you, I happen to have a shred of humanity when it comes to others. You might be a prat, but I don't actually want you to _die_.'

'Blimey,' Draco said, spluttering with laughter. 'That's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me.'

'What did Senor Canaro mean when he said _you_ shouldn't be suffering from the type of magic affecting your wound?' Hermione asked, genuinely curious.

'Nothing!' Draco retorted peevishly, his face scarlet with sudden anger. 'The man's a blithering idiot.'

'But it sounds serious…'

'Look, Leave_ me_ to worry about _my _problems,' Draco said heatedly. 'Our priority is to get to Patagonia as fast as we possibly can, preferably today. We need to verify this memory to see if it's false or not.'

Hermione's throat tightened at the mere thought. She fervently hoped the memory _was_ false.

But if that was the case, who was trying to mislead them, and why?

'We need to visit the Santa Maria morgue before they move the bodies,' Draco continued.

Hermione automatically flinched at the prospect. 'They've probably been claimed already.'

'Not necessarily.'

'I guess we'd better Floo there then,' she said in resigned tones. 'It'll be quicker than flying. Do you know any other wizards in Buenos Aires other than… Senor Canaro?'

'Afraid not,' Draco grunted. They both stopped in their tracks, turned about heel, and rapidly headed back to Senor Canaro's house.

XXX

The tall, thin windows seemed even blanker than usual. The closed door seemed even more forbidding.

'He said he had business this afternoon,' Hermione remarked. 'We might have missed him.'

'I doubt it,' Draco said, knocking on the door with a firm rap of his knuckles. 'We only left five minutes ago.'

There was no reply.

'Surely his house-elf hasn't gone out too?' Hermione asked. 'Try again.'

This time, Draco banged his fist on the door with greater strength and for a more sustained period of time. But there was still no answer. Just a deep, brooding silence.

'Hold on Malfoy!' Hermione said, staying his hand with her own. 'This can't be Senor Canaro's house. He had a door-bell.'

'So he did!' Draco agreed. Hermione surreptitiously mouthed a revealing charm, just in case the doorbell had been concealed by magic.

She hastened down the garden path back to the pavement to double-check that this was the right house on the right road. She craned her neck upwards to take in the full view of the tall, thin house with its peeling black shutters.

No doubts about it. This was definitely Canaro's.

'Try an Alohomora,' Draco suggested.

Hermione did just that. But nothing happened.

Their eyes locked, a swift communication of unease passing between them, then sped away, not daring to look back.

'Okay Malfoy, this is looking odder by the minute,' Hermione muttered under her breath, almost as though she feared the trees and hedgerows and parked cars at the side of the road were eavesdropping on their conversation. 'We need a Plan B. And fast.'

XXX

They soon returned to the busy avenue which bordered the parkland they had strolled through earlier. A few hundred yards to their right was a strikingly designed modern building, which Hermione realized was an art gallery, judging by the banners advertising Latin American art. In front of the gallery, there was an elegant water feature, with neat symmetrical lines of water-jets shooting skywards. A stylish, open-air terrace-restaurant was situated to its left.

The mid-afternoon sun was high in the blue, cloudless sky, beating down on them with an unforgiving intensity. Feeling parched and over-heated, they headed straight for the restaurant.

Their table was set a little apart from the other diners and was adjacent to the waterfalls, which pleased Hermione, as she always found the sound of babbling water soothing. She closed her eyes and wallowed in the rhythmic, sloshing rush of the water-jets rising and falling. She shivered luxuriantly, reveling in the deliciously chill tingle rolling through her.

'You've got goose bumps.'

Hermione snapped open her eyes. Draco was watching her closely, a concentrated expression on his face.

'I find the sound of running water relaxing,' she explained, a little self-consciously.

She gestured to a harried-looking waitress. Draco seemed less keen to eat than drink, ordering an expensive bottle of Malbec and a sandwich. The last thing Hermione wanted was wine. There was still a faint dinning at her temples from the copious drinks she had consumed at the airport yesterday evening.

'Maybe you should Portkey to Patagonia and I'll follow on tomorrow with the scanner?' Draco said the moment the waitress was out of earshot.

'No bloody way!' Hermione screeched. 'Don't you dare leave me to do all your dirty work! And what about our _friends_ in red? Considering they've already taken a pot-shot at you and disabled my husband, I'm a little wary about going to strange places on my own.'

'That's a very good point, considering they seem to know _everything_ about this mission already,' Draco scowled. 'Kind of convenient that, don't you think?'

He paused while the waitress brought Hermione a glass of coke and a plate of pasta and poured Draco a large glass of red wine.

'It's pretty damned obvious to _me _that Ron must have spilled the beans to somebody,' Draco continued haughtily.

'No, Malfoy. He wouldn't do that!' Hermione said defensively. 'Somebody must have known _your_ plans. What about your father-in-law? You used a Gilgad Inc credit card at the hotel this morning.'

'How very observant of you, Mrs Weasley,' Draco said sardonically. 'Although you forget that Gilgad is the majority shareholder in Herb Healing.'

'So does Ephraim know about this trip or not?'

'Of course he does!' Draco took a long, thoughtful sip of his wine. 'But there's no way he'd betray us to Jeroboam, if that's what you're thinking. Ephraim hates Jeroboam with a passion.'

'You sure about that?' Hermione asked, meticulously winding a skein of stringy pasta onto her fork.

'Positive. Gilgad and Jeroboam's Red Star are major business rivals. But most importantly, my father-in-law worked with Jeroboam, many years ago. They were part of The Geneva Group, a bunch of scientists trying to create Dark Flux under lab conditions, but the project fell apart when Ephraim discovered Jeroboam's true ambition – which was a weapon of mass destruction.'

'Why didn't you tell me this before?'

'Remember those files I gave you? It's all in there.'

Hermione was conscious that she hadn't actually looked at those files since he had given them to her at Malfoy Manor. As far as she was concerned, they were Ron's territory.

'In any case Malfoy, I think we should speak with your father-in-law. He probably has some very useful insights,' Hermione said prissily.

Draco shrugged. 'He doesn't like to talk about it to strangers.'

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation.

'He figures there's no point bad-mouthing Jeroboam in public when there's no smoking gun, as you Muggles would say,' Draco stated baldly. 'He's probably right. We need more than a couple of leaked memos and some blabbing employees to nail the guy.'

'You told me and Ron you had _hard evidence _linking Jeroboam to Dark Flux!'' Hermione exclaimed, outraged.

'I might have exaggerated a little,' Draco said sheepishly. 'We have the scanner of course.'

'If we can prove it works!'

'And now, Los Rojos, who Canaro says work for Jeroboam.' Draco chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. 'Mind you, I'd never heard of them before today. I'll get Torquil to check them out.'

'Who the bloody hell's _Torquil?_' Hermione shrilled, exploding in frustration.

'Torquil Haast. He's my father-in-law's main administrator, negotiates all of Gilgad's legal business with the Ministry so you've probably seem him around. He definitely knows _you_. He pretty much planned this whole mission actually.'

'It would have been nice to be told this earlier,' Hermione protested.

Draco fidgeted uncomfortably. 'I _assumed_ your bloody useless twat of a husband had briefed you properly before you came here.'

'So has _Ron _met this Torquil person?' Hermione said bitterly.

Draco smiled. 'Many times.'

Draco took another deep swig of his wine. 'Maybe _Torquil _knows of a local wizard to help us out with our current difficulty? Or we could hire a magic carpet? They haven't been banned in South America,' Draco said with almost childish glee.

A sudden trilling thrum, emanating from Draco's jacket, interrupted them. Draco pulled out his mobile phone, which he immediately slapped to his ear, leaning away from Hermione so that he could converse more freely with the caller.

'That's great, Miguel, thanks for that,' Draco said, clicking his phone shut and squirreling it away before signaling for the bill. 'Come on. Eat up. I've got us a lift to Patagonia.'

XXX

Hermione had to admit that Senor Miguel Culebra was a dashing fellow. He had a charming, rakish air, penetrating soft brown eyes and a full, sensuous mouth, which seemed to enjoy smiling.

'You did not tell me, Draco, that you were bringing such an enchanting lady-friend with you, on this particular trip,' he said, his eyes roving Hermione's face and body in a most off-putting manner, Hermione thought.

'It wasn't planned,' Draco said brusquely. 'This is very good of you, Miguel.'

'No problem, we can talk business en route, no?' Miguel said, leading them into the sumptuously upholstered cabin of a small private jet. 'I will be getting off at Bariloche, which is just a few hours away, and then the plane is at your disposal to fly further south. Where is it you want to go?'

'El Calafate,' Hermione said crisply.

'It's a private matter,' Draco said. 'Kind of hard to explain.'

'You do not need to tell me a thing, Draco!' Miguel said, punching him playfully on the arm. 'You've done me many favours in the past; this is the least I can do.'

'I hope you haven't lost that Draught of Peace Senor Canaro gave you?' Draco whispered to Hermione, buckling his seat belt in readiness for take-off.

XXX

The Draught of Peace had done its job, Hermione thought with considerable relief. Boarding a plane so soon after the flight from London to Buenos Aires would have been an impossible task without it.

Instead, Hermione could hardly believe their luck, and was even excited at the prospect of flying, relishing their speed as they taxi-ed down the runway and the ear-fogging intensity of take-off. She gazed at the sprawling mass of Buenos Aires and the mud-brown river which bordered the city, extending its spidery brown fingers into the surrounding countryside. Before long, the view had been swallowed up by thick, clotted clouds.

Once they were in the air, a young man in a smart burgundy uniform offered them a drink. Hermione opted to spoil herself with a gin and tonic, feeling she had deserved it after the horrors of the Pensieve.

Miguel and Draco were seated opposite one another, work papers already strewn on a table between them.

'So how long have you two been… you know…?' Miguel asked Draco, a mischievous glint in his eye. He cast a sneaky sidelong glance at Hermione, who was blushing furiously.

'We're not… _you know_,' Draco said emphatically.

'I beg your pardon. Please forgive me. So you work with Draco?' Miguel asked, suddenly switching the full focus of his attention to Hermione, his dark eyes burning into her.

'Mrs Weasley is helping us out with a freelance research project,' Draco interjected neatly. Hermione could feel his cool, grey stare on her glowing cheeks.

The two men soon resumed their business negotiations, leaving Hermione in peace.

Before long, she had drifted off to sleep.

XXX

Moments after waking, Hermione realized she was alone. There was no sign of either man - although, to her relief, Draco's briefcase was still parked on the table he had shared with Miguel. The metal case containing the scanner was also there, along with the couple of bags crammed with clothes they had managed to grab from the hotel in the very short time they had before getting to the airport.

One of the bags was open - its contents unstuffed and flopped onto the floor. Hermione guessed Draco was getting changed in the toilet, which didn't seem such a bad idea she thought. She imagined Southern Patagonia would be chillier than balmy Buenos Aires, so she rooted around in the other bag for her jeans and a top.

She felt a little grungy after falling asleep for what must have been at least a few hours and felt a need to freshen up. To her annoyance, she couldn't find her toiletry bag, and realized she'd left it, along with the pink shift Draco had bought her, in the hotel room. Luckily, Draco hadn't checked them out. He had business in Buenos Aires on Wednesday.

She leant her head against the window and stared out at the clouds, which parted occasionally to reveal vast swathes of endless brown terrain below them. The scenery here was far from exciting. This had to be the Pampas - baked, hard earth, sun-scorched grass, stretching as far as the eye could see. It was the sort of sight which normally would have panicked her - a vast, wide open space, disorienting in its remote _nothingness_. She listened to the steady drone of the engines, fervently wishing she'd had time to pack a book.

Where the hell was Draco? He was taking a very long time in the toilet, but then a faint shushing snort alerted her to somebody's presence. Heart hammering in her chest, she peered behind her to the pair of seats nestled at the back of their cabin.

Draco was fast asleep, his coat draped over his body. His silvery hair was mussed up and his mouth was agape. He looked strangely innocent, Hermione mused, even angelic.

As the toilet was obviously vacant, she decided to spruce herself up. It was a more spacious in-flight bathroom than usual, with a full-length mirror and an array of decent towels, soaps and a sweet-smelling hand-cream. She undressed and had a proper scrub-down.

Her hair was a riotous mess of tangles; without any hair-care implements to hand, she resorted to magic, unfastening and re-sizing her wand pendant to fix the problem. Once her hair had been restored to some kind of sanity, she shrunk the wand back to its pendant size and re-attached it to the necklace, placing it on a small shelf above the sink while she nabbed a generous dose of hand-cream.

There was a banging on the door. 'Hermione?' came Draco's voice, in slightly belligerent tones.

Her hands were coated in cream, and she was wearing only her underwear.

'What do you want?' she asked irritably.

'I need the loo.'

'I'll only be a minute.'

'I'm desperate,' he groaned.

'Okay, Okay, I'm coming!' She rubbed her hands on a towel and quickly donned her jeans and a green, long-sleeved jersey top, then grabbed her pretty blue dress and swept out of the bathroom, the door smacking Draco in the face in the process.

'No need for that!' he grumbled, rubbing his nose.

Minutes later, he rejoined her in the cabin. She had resumed her dreary watch of the interminable, blank brown scenery. The sole excitement was a slight buffeting from the dank, grey clouds which scudded past them at regular intervals.

Draco knelt on the seat in front of her so that he was facing her. He followed her gaze out of the window. She glanced at him, surprised to note that he was looking a lot less exhausted than earlier. His face had a healthier glow. His eyes too, were brighter, a warmer, deeper grey, currently reflecting the clouds outside.

'You missed the mountains,' he boasted. 'Stunning.'

'Never mind. At least I got to see all this lovely, endless… brownness,' she said.

'Not as bad as flying over Afghanistan...' Draco said. 'From the air, it looks like one great, big turd.'

'That's a horrible thing to say!'

'Yeah, I remember I must have used about twelve different sets of Daydream Charms on that trip. You realize I've been hugely instrumental in forging George Weasley's millions, don't you? I hope those blasted Weasleys appreciate it.'

'I would have thought you'd find most of their stuff far too _infantile_ for your liking,' Hermione said snidely, referring to their earlier conversation.

'Don't be ridiculous. I happen to feel deeply sorry for Muggles having missed out on the joys of belching powder and screaming yo-yos.'

'They've coped fine with such deprivation for many millennia, and will continue to do so, I'm sure,' Hermione said coolly.

They were now beginning their descent, and the scenery was rapidly changing, growing into something much more mesmerising. Lakes and rivers and snow-capped peaks in the distance.

'Half an hour to El Calafate,' Draco said. 'Miguel said there's taxis that can take us straight to Santa Maria. It's not far. We should shove our bags into a secure locker at the airport for now. We can retrieve them later.'

XXX

Santa Maria was as grim as they'd feared. Dusk was drawing in fast, rendering the small, ramshackle town even gloomier in the drab, grey light.

This place really felt like the end of the world, Hermione thought glumly.

'Let's try the café,' she said to Draco, pointing at Bar Santa Maria.

A group of men were huddled around a table, playing what looked like dominoes, except these dominoes were spelled to spontaneously keel over when least expected, adding an extra element of urgency to the game.

A young woman was working behind the bar.

Draco attempted to speak to her in his halting, incoherent Spanish, attracting a great deal of amused attention from the card-players, who chortled gruffly into their hands and sleeves.

One man, however, a broad-chested chap with sandy hair and a weathered, slightly grizzled-looking face separated from his companions and approached them at the bar.

'You guys needing a bit of assistance?' he asked in a friendly American accent.

Hermione grinned in relief. 'That would be great.'

'English?' he said, angling his head to one side and squinting a little as he examined them with unabashed nosiness.

Hermione nodded. Draco pushed past her, hand outstretched.

'I'm Draco Malfoy. And this is Hermione Weasley. We're from the British Ministry of Magic.'

On cue, Hermione fumbled for her Ministry ID, which she flashed at the sandy-haired American while he was still distracted by Draco's over-enthusiastic handshake. One ID pass seemed to suffice.

'I'm Jonas Arbuthnot,' the American said. 'I'm kind of head honcho in these parts. I'm guessing you're here to talk about these suspicious deaths we had?'

'We are,' Hermione asserted. 'Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?'

Their every movement was being closely tracked by the card-players and the young woman at the bar, who was watching them with large, soulful eyes. There was something about those eyes, Hermione thought, something she was trying to communicate. Was it anxiety? Suspicion?

'I have an office in town,' Jonas said cordially.

'That would be great,' Hermione said. She turned to Draco and was surprised to see that he was ogling a TV, attached to a bracket high on the wall above the bar, showing what looked like a Brazilian Tele-Novela.

Draco looked aghast. He mouthed something. A name.

'Astoria. It's bloody Astoria!' he choked, caught between hilarity and horror.

Hermione gawped at the brassy blonde on-screen. There was no doubting the resemblance.

'Someone he knows?' Jonas asked, intrigued by Draco's odd behaviour.

'It's his wife,' Hermione mouthed.

'_Ex_-wife,' Draco said emphatically.

XXX

Jonas's office amounted to little more than a dingy room on the ground floor of a civic building.

'I thought it best to get you away from the townsfolk,' Jonas said with a heavy sigh. He flicked his wand, prompting a bulbous, white lamp to burst into life. 'They're getting mighty pissed at the constant quizzing over these deaths we're being subjected to. Anyone would think we'd _murdered_ the poor bastards. And I've gotta say, I'm not really getting why your Ministry is so curious about something that happened thousands of miles away.'

'Who else has been here?' Hermione asked, trying to sound casual and hoping to defer further awkward questions. She glanced over at Draco, who was lost in thought, clearly still dumb-founded by what he had seen at Bar Santa Maria.

Jonas settled himself onto a large chair behind his desk, which was completely bare. He indicated to Hermione and Draco to take a seat.

'Well, I'm not too sure what I can or can't tell you. And I don't know how you even heard about our little mishap, because it ain't been aired on the Muggle news, that's for certain.'

'We found out from a Senor Asusto,' Draco said. 'He says he found the dead girl and baby in the bar where we met you.'

Jonas's eyes narrowed. 'I don't know this Senor Asusto,' he said in suspicious tones. 'And there weren't no baby either, as far as I know… and I darned well should know; I was first on the scene when the alarm was raised.'

'Who raised the alarm?' Hermione asked, deeply concerned now about Senor Asusto's testimony.

'Well that was Dolores – the woman working at the bar? She runs the place. Her friend Ana was one of the victims.' A look of deep sadness shadowed Jonas's face. 'She was one hell of a witch, she really was.'

_Ana_. That had been the name Senor Asusto had cried when he found her body, Hermione thought. So the memory hadn't been entirely false.

'And she was Muggleborn,' Draco said pointedly.

Jonas's body language changed from amicable to defiant. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and eyed Draco with unalloyed suspicion. 'We don't hold no truck with such distinctions in this part of the world, Mr Malfoy. She was a witch, plain and simple. And a darned skilled one at that.'

Jonas cocked his head to one side and examined Draco closely. 'Your name is kind of familiar. Have we met before?' Draco vigorously shook his head.

'The thing is,' Jonas continued, 'this country, Argentina, has had many problems in the past. It's been a dark past. Too many acts of unadulterated evil, too many ghosts. Back in the late 70s, early 80s, the Muggle world descended into the kind of hell your Dark Lord 'Voldemort' was hell-bent on implementing in Britain and beyond. We call it '_La Guerra Sucia_' – the Dirty War. Tens of thousands of people were murdered or spirited away, never to be seen again. So we've seen the horrors that can happen when one bunch of folks gets too high and mighty, and we're determined not to let that happen again. Here or anywhere. Santa Maria is a community of blow-ins. Magical folks from all over the world can come here to live a life of peace and tolerance.'

'Until last week,' Hermione said succinctly.

Jonas curled his lips into a grimace. 'Until last week.'

'We heard that you had a bunch of investigators here, calling themselves Los Rojos? Wizards wearing red robes? Is that true?' Draco said.

Jonas nodded. 'That's true. And we've no idea how they got wind of our situation, but they did. Maybe that too was the fault of your mysterious Senor Asusto?'

Hermione smiled wanly. 'Can you tell us exactly how many actually died in last week's tragedy?'

'Look, little lady,' Jonas said. 'I'm more than happy to talk to you, but if you happen to be allied to these guys…'

'I can assure you, we're not,' Draco cut in.

'It's just that they were a little heavy handed in their interrogation process, you know what I mean? Scared the crap out of half the town, chanting and sprinkling some kind of dust, or it could have been ash, everywhere. Acted like they owned the goddamned place.'

'Ash? What kind of ash?' Hermione asked. 'Is there some we can look at? Maybe take a sample?'

'No chance,' Jonas cackled. 'You see the wind in these parts? It's all gone.'

'Did it look like the type of ash used to contain dark spirits? Or… or as protection from something outside?' Hermione asked, almost over-flowing with her excitement at this information. 'Was it pale, like bone-ash?'

'Hey, lady!' Jonas bellowed, silencing her with a thunderous look. 'Like I said, the wind took it far, far away from here. Maybe it was some kind of ritual. Hey, I dunno! And I didn't care. I just wanted my town back to normal. But then we had some other kook poking his nose into our business, and that was a Muggle. We were none too pleased about that, let me tell you!'

'A Muggle?' Draco asked.

'That's what I said, didn't I? Some Danish guy. Said he was a photographer. He didn't stick around long.'

A Danish photographer.How the hell did he know about this? Hermione wondered.

'Have you heard of Dark Flux, Mr Arbuthnot?' Hermione asked, deciding to cut straight to the crux of the matter.

'Of course I have,' he sneered, a little unpleasantly Hermione thought.

'How can you be sure?'

'Because I've seen it before.' There was a dark gleam in Jonas's eyes which chilled Hermione's insides. 'Paris. 2008. I lost my sweetheart, Marie-Louise. She was a Muggleborn. And a very fine witch.'

'And the bodies. Weren't they blue too? Like here?' Hermione asked, almost holding her breath as she spoke.

Jonas opened his mouth to speak, then faltered. He seemed to ponder this information, then abruptly stood up from his desk, slamming his chair tight against the table as he moved to the door. Hermione and Draco instantly followed.

'You want to see these bodies? You've got ten minutes flat, you hear me? It's getting late,' he said, plucking a large brass key from a keychain on this belt.

XXX

The morgue was housed in the dark, shadowy basement of this same civic building, and was accessible by a narrow staircase. There was a wet, musty odour to the place. Jonas led the way, holding high his wand, which he had illuminated with a simple Lumos. Hermione instinctively reached for her wand pendant, thinking that two wands would be better than one. But instead, her hand landed on bare flesh.

A sickening wave of dread surged through her.

'My wand,' she gasped, grabbing frantically at Draco beside her. 'Have you seen my wand?'

He stopped following Jonas and scanned her neck, but it was hard to see in the dim light, so he slunk his hand under the collar of her top and tentatively patted her neck and collar-bone, his fingers skimming her skin and her hairline.

'It's gone… What the hell you done with it?' he asked anxiously.

Hermione thought she might burst into tears. 'Oh, God,' she murmured. 'Oh no. I think – I think…'

She was actually finding it hard to think, not only because she was spiraling into panic, but also because the unexpected touch of Draco's fingertips on her bare skin in the dark, had sparked an unwanted response in her, a fluttery ferment of feeling she was struggling to tamp down.

Hermione was aware that Jonas was waiting at the bottom of the steps, a quizzical expression on his face that was pooled in the solitary light afforded by his wand.

Hermione screwed her eyes tightly shut, recalling with sudden vivid clarity the moment she had placed her wand on the shelf above the sink in the bathroom on board Miguel's jet. Had she picked it up? She couldn't remember if she had. She couldn't recall putting the necklace back on again. Draco had interrupted her. That was right.

'Shit,' she gasped. 'I left it on the plane.' How could she have been so stupid? She'd never lost her wand_. Not ever. _Ron had. Countless times. But not her. She didn't do stuff like that.

Until now.

'Something wrong up there?' Jonas asked.

'Everything's fine,' Draco proclaimed jovially. He gently squeezed Hermione's arm. 'I'll call Miguel the moment we're out of here. Let's just get this over with, okay?' he whispered.

She followed Jonas deeper into the pitch-black darkness of the morgue, Draco close behind.

'Is there any light down here?' Hermione asked, trying to maintain as steady and jocular a tone as possible.

'One moment,' Jonas grunted. He tapped a bar above a low trestle table. A garish white light exploded into life, directly above the electric, blue body of a young woman who Hermione instantly recognised as Ana from the bar. The light focused almost entirely on the contents of the table top, only spilling a few inches beyond its borders so that only the chest and lower half of Jonas' face was clearly visible, his eyes concealed from view. His mouth and jaw were set into a tense, pouting frown.

Hermione gazed intently at the corpse stretched out before her. It was a sickening sight, and yet poignant, too. A nightmare made flesh.

'We're confused about these welts,' Jonas said, indicating the dark purple contusions distributed across Ana's body, disfiguring not only her limbs but also her torso and breasts.

'This isn't normal for Dark Flux victims, is it?' Draco mumbled.

'Not to my knowledge,' Jonas said mournfully. 'Nobody's seen anything like this. Our current theory is that Ana came into contact with some kind of infection in El Calafate where she'd been visiting a friend.'

He gestured to the tables behind them supporting other corpses, covered by a translucent shell which shimmered with the faint white glow of enchantment.

'None of these manifested the same symptoms, that's for sure. Apart from being… bright blue.'

Hermione counted three more tables, which made four bodies in all. Four victims - not three, as reports had suggested. Did this mean the baby was here after all?

'How many died that day?' she asked sharply.

'Three.'

'But there's four bodies.'

'Not all deaths are like _this _poor soul, Mrs Weasley. At the far end is a man we believe died from natural causes - nothing to alarm yourself with, whatsoever.'

'Can I see?' Hermione asked, suddenly brave, even though the skin where her wand would have rested was feeling eerily cold and tingly in the wand's absence.

Jonas opened his mouth to answer but a creaking noise from the top of the staircase alerted them to the presence of somebody else. There was the faint sound of a footfall followed by an odd buzzing sound.

The new arrival was yet to speak, but they could feel the morgue was being studied closely by an unseen pair of eyes.

Hermione could hardly breathe, aware that her pulse was suddenly racing and her chest had constricted uncomfortably. Draco tugged at her sleeve, pulling her away from the pool of light which hovered over the table before them.

'Hey! Who's there?' Jonas snarled, infuriated by this intrusion. 'Nobody's allowed down here without my express permission.'

Hermione saw that he had a tight grip of his wand and was pointing it as unobtrusively as possible at the staircase.

She inched backwards with Draco and was gradually enveloped by the darkness behind them, rendering them spectators to the scene unfolding before them.

There was a glimmer of blue light emanating from the top of the stairs which gradually seemed to grow until it was the size of a small golf ball. It hovered in the air, emitting an ominous hum, briefly illuminating a wand pointing in the direction of Jonas Arbuthnot.

A look of grim dread scuttled across Jonas's face, and then the blue ball of light spun at breakneck speed towards him, smashing into his chest with such force he fell backwards. Jonas crashed heavily into the table, instantly extending an arm to steady himself, which then landed on Ana's corpse. He yelped in fear and disgust, instinctively pushing at the body, which slid off the table, collapsing with a gut-churning thud onto the floor.

The blue ball of light continued to hover close by, zooming to and fro, occasionally charging at Jonas before zipping upwards, then circling the table, before making another swooping dive, homing in to sting its prey.

There was an unpleasant crackling sound and the acrid smell of burning flesh as the ball attacked again and again, striking Jonas repeatedly on his face, his hands, his neck.

Jonas recoiled in horror, pleading and crying for the ball of light to stop.

'Come on,' Draco said urgently, grabbing Hermione's hand. 'We've got to get out of here!'

But Hermione feared it was already too late. The shadowy figure at the top of the stairs was now descending, arm outstretched. Clad from head to toe in a long, red cloak, the figure was fast approaching Jonas, who was whimpering in fear, batting away the buzzing blue ball which continued to pepper him with burning blows.

'We should help him,' Hermione gasped.

'No we fucking shouldn't,' Draco whispered hoarsely. 'We should help ourselves, Hermione, come on!' He grabbed her by the waist, hooking his arm firmly around her middle, and carried her as far from Jonas's screams and cries as seemed physically possible.

'No,' she squealed, wriggling free from his grasp. 'Get off me!'

She desperately tried to harness the mental energy to summon a spell which could assist Jonas, who had fallen to the floor and was squirming in fear and agony.

Draco was feeling along the back wall for an exit of some kind. 'Forget about him, Hermione, he's a goner!'

Hermione stood her ground, feeling the magic quivering through her fingertips. Focus, she said to herself. Come on, focus!

'Stupefy!' she shrieked, aiming her hand in the direction of the wizard wielding the wand, who was now a foot away from Jonas.

There was a faint sizzling noise and a sharp pain which stabbed at her fingers, but no magic. 'No, no, this can't be happening,' she sobbed. I can usually do this, she told herself. Why not now?

'Expelliarmus!' she cried. Jonas's caped attacker now had his wand poised and was pointing it straight at him. The wand sparked blood red as the Cruciatus Curse was inflicted over and over again.

Jonas's screams were deafening as he writhed in pain.

'Hermione,' Draco hissed. 'Get your arse over here _now_!'

Hermione was rooted to the spot, hysterical panic whirling inside of her. If only I had my wand, she thought over and over.

To her horror, the red-cloaked man was being followed by a troupe of similarly garbed assistants, each carrying a heavy black sack. She realized they planned to take the bodies.

'I've found an open window,' Draco called. 'But it's stuck.'

Sure enough, there was a faint draft to her right.

'Come on, help me out here,' he begged.

Draco grabbed Hermione's arm, his fingers digging deep into her flesh, and dragged her towards the back wall of the morgue. The sudden searing pain from his tight grasp jolted her to her senses.

She saw that he was frantically trying to prise open a small window, little more than a vent really, built high into the wall, by jumping as high as he could and shoving at the glass with his hand. The window was ajar, but jammed too tightly to fully give way.

'Lift me up!' she yelled.

He placed his hands on her waist and hoisted her high into the air, so that she was able to smash her hands against the glass. His arms were quivering with the strain of holding her, his feet unsteady.

'It won't open!' she screamed, panic-stricken.

A piercing shriek rang out behind them and then a booming Avada Kedavra followed by silence. Hermione could see the green light of the deadly curse reflected in the windowpane.

She could hear the footsteps of Jonas's murderer fast approaching, and hear the chilling hum of the buzzing blue ball hurtling towards them.

Draco was swaying beneath her, then he swerved, pulling Hermione away from the window, narrowly avoiding the blue ball which whizzed past them before shooting upwards, poised for a fresh attack.

Draco tottered, his knees buckling beneath him. Hermione slid inexorably down the length of his body, her head smashing heavily into the wall, aware only that his arms had tightly encircled her and were holding her close.

I'm going to die, she thought helplessly, hot, bitter tears stinging her cheeks, her face muffled by Draco's shirt which was wet with sweat. I'm going to die in a morgue at the end of the world with bloody Draco Malfoy.

There was a sudden crashing thunk, an explosion of bricks and dust, and the shattering of glass high above them. The window had vanished and a vast opening had been blown into the wall.

For a few brief seconds, Hermione wondered if she was dead; she felt she was floating, being flung forwards into the darkness of the night, before landing clumsily on a gritty, muddy pathway.

She was lying on the ground, her head was swimming, her vision starry.

'_Venga_!' came a woman's voice. 'Come with me!'

She was being hoisted upwards by two strong arms and dragged across the dirt-path, her shoes scuffing the ground.

A small house with a candle glowing in the window beckoned them. Draco kept hold of her. 'Can you walk?' he panted.

'Yes – yes, I think so,' Hermione said.

There was a woman ahead of them. She flicked her wrist and the door to the house swung open. 'Get inside!' she barked.

They ran inside and the woman slammed the door shut.

Hermione stared. It was the woman from the bar. The woman whose deep, dark eyes had tried to communicate a silent warning.

'You are safe now, I promise,' she said, in heavily accented English. 'My name is Dolores. Welcome to my home.'

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"WIDE OPEN SPACE" by MANSUN**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, except my original characters.

Thanks to Apurva & Lou.

9


	12. Crow's Nest

_**Hermione and Draco seek shelter with the mysterious Dolores; but have they found sanctuary or wandered into a trap? **_

**12. Crows Nest**

'Stay here!' Dolores commanded, circling what appeared to be the main living room in her tiny house, trailing a luminous white spark from her finger, which then crackled and faded.

The front door bolted, the curtains snapped shut, a fire in the grate burst into brilliant turquoise flames, and a number of candles, arranged at strategic points around her small, cramped living quarters, instantly sprung into life. She then disappeared into a room situated behind them, casting defensive spells in low, guttural Spanish.

Draco stalked the main window facing the road outside, breathing heavily, his body tensed, sneaking glances behind the curtain to check they hadn't been followed. His wild-eyed prowling was making Hermione feel dizzy; her ears were still ringing from the explosion that had liberated them from the morgue.

Draco shook his head in wonder. 'Doesn't make sense,' he murmured. 'Where is everybody? This place is a bloody ghost town!'

'_Es el miedo mortal._ Everybody is very frightened, no? Unexplained deaths, and then Los Rojos…. Many people have left or are hiding in their homes,' Dolores explained, re-entering the room holding a tray with three glasses and a silver teapot.

She settled herself on a plump red cushion next to a small round table and offered them each a glass of _Mate_ which Draco refused.

Hermione accepted, wanting to show her gratitude to the witch who had probably saved their lives. She was a striking looking woman that was for sure, with lustrous, velvety dark eyes, a long, bony physique, and a torrent of thick, black hair which tumbled freely down her back.

'You alright?' Draco said to Hermione, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Hermione almost jumped in surprise. 'I'm fine,' she said, gulping back a sudden wave of emotion that threatened to swamp her. 'And you?'

Draco nodded wearily. 'That was a close shave.'

'Poor Jonas,' Hermione croaked. 'We should have done more to help him.'

Dolores watched them closely, a serene expression on her face.

'You must not blame yourselves,' she asserted, replenishing Hermione's glass with the strangely soothing _Mate_. 'Los Rojos would have found a way to enter the morgue and do what they wanted to do there without your presence here.'

Hermione wasn't so sure. She couldn't shrug off a niggling feeling deep inside of her, that the presence of herself and Draco had somehow led Jonas' attackers into this fatal course of action.

'How did _you_ know what was going on?' Draco asked Dolores, a suspicious gleam in his eye. 'This house is a good few hundred yards from the morgue.'

'I have extremely powerful wards which protect the perimeter of my property,' Dolores declared. 'The destructive magic that was unleashed by Los Rojos was so powerful that it triggered an alarm.'

'Do Los Rojos use a _special_ type of magic? Kind of like an _anti_-magic…?' Hermione asked in tremulous tones. She shuddered as she recalled the burning blue ball spinning towards them, zapping poor Jonas. She'd never seen a weapon like it.

Dolores's eyes scanned Hermione's face inquisitively. 'You felt it too?'

Hermione nodded. 'I could feel my magic surging violently and then dying inside of me.'

'There are others in Santa Maria who have experienced this same phenomenon since the arrival of Los Rojos. It is most troubling, no?' Dolores said. 'But you are safe now, I can assure you. I insist you rest here until dawn.'

'Thanks, but no thanks. We still have work to do,' Draco said in a firm, determined voice. He gestured towards the turquoise flames flickering in the fireplace. 'We could Floo straight out of here… '

'No Draco Malfoy!' Dolores warned, her eyes suddenly stern and hard, 'there is very great danger for you in this place_ beyond_ this house, of that I am sure.'

Draco turned a dull shade of green. 'How – how do you know my name?'

'I knew you were coming,' she said in low tones.

'Who told you?' Draco snapped.

'I see things.'

Oh, lord, no, Hermione thought with an inward groan_. A Seer._

A Seer who had neglected to mention that they had introduced themselves to Jonas Arbuthnot within her earshot at Bar Santa Maria, just a short while ago.

'And I also see that you need to rest, Draco Malfoy,' Dolores purred. 'You have much pain.'

Draco winced reflexively, his hand instantly covering his shoulder as though to protect himself from Dolores's dark-eyed scrutiny. 'It's not so bad,' he muttered.

'We both know that is a lie,' Dolores said snippily. 'Let me tend to your pain, then you must rest.'

A thin, reedy bleating suddenly rang out - the cry of a baby.

'_Disculpeme_,' Dolores said, smiling an amiable apology at her guests. She gathered a small baby from a wooden cradle hunkered into a dark corner of the room, and held it close, gently rocking it to and fro in her arms.

Hermione couldn't remember seeing the cradle when they had first entered the house, but then again she had been in such a state of confusion that it was hardly surprising.

Draco continued to covertly inspect the street outside from behind the curtains. Hermione couldn't help but notice the ashen tinge to his complexion. There was also an uncharacteristic stiffness in his movements which worried her.

Dolores was right. He needed rest, and hopefully some pain relief. Hermione hoped Dolores had something else to hand as Senor Canaro's potion which had helped him so much earlier, was currently stowed in a locker, far away at El Calafate Airport.

Dolores beamed at her visitors. 'This is little Paco.'

The baby in her arms was making throaty gurgling noises, his small hand tightly gripping her fingers. Despite the fraught circumstances, Hermione was instantly suffused with a soft, melting warmth.

Dolores seated herself on her plump, red cushion, cradling the baby in her arms. Then, to Hermione's amazement, Dolores peeled back the left side of her robe to reveal a creamy expanse of breast, her nipple standing bulbous and erect from an expanse of brown, mottled areola. The baby attached himself greedily, his small hand padding his mother's breast in tandem with his soft, mewling sighs of contentment.

Dolores beamed at Hermione and Draco.

Hermione considered herself an open-minded, earthy sort of woman and had happily breastfed both Rose and Hugo, but never in public. And _definitely_ _not_ amongst strangers, in the midst of a potentially life-threatening situation.

She smiled bravely in return, even though her cheeks were glowing with a sudden flush of awkwardness. She cast a nervous glance at Draco who was still standing by the window. To her surprise, he seemed transfixed.

'Astoria never breastfed,' he said gruffly, breaking the heavy silence which had fallen on them. 'I have a son,' he said to Dolores, by way of further explanation. 'Scorpius. He's seven years old.'

To Hermione's astonishment, Dolores suddenly grabbed his hand and pulled him closer, her eyes shining feverishly.

'And you also have a beautiful little girl, Draco Malfoy,' she said dreamily. 'She is waiting for you to take her home.'

Draco instantly tried to retract his hand from her grasp, but Dolores clearly had a vice-like grip.

'You don't believe me,' Dolores said. 'I can see it in your eyes.'

'No. I – I don't know what to think,' Draco said, his eyes wide with panic. He cast an anxious glance in Hermione's direction, but Dolores tugged at his arm, compelling him to return her gaze with his own.

'Your daughter has a look of you, your eyes especially… the colour of molten mercury.'

Hermione groaned in exasperation. Dolores might well have saved their lives tonight, but she was clearly a kook.

Dolores blinked rapidly, as though an unwelcome image had impinged on her reverie. 'And… she has her mother's hair.'

'Where are they now? What are they doing?' Draco asked in a slightly strangulated voice.

'Rest assured, your daughter is amongst those who love her very much,' Dolores intoned.

'And my _wife_?'

Dolores's eyes darkened. Her hand released his, clasping his neck instead. Her fingers slinked along the length of the silver chain supporting Katya's pendant. She unfurled the silver rose from the confines of his shirt, and enfolded it in her palm. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly and deliberately.

'She is alive, isn't she?' Draco implored, half-swallowing the words the moment they sprung from his lips. He looked ashamed and angry with himself for asking such a thing, almost as though it was a betrayal.

Hermione could feel red-hot anger boiling up inside of her. Toying with Draco's emotions like this seemed cruel and unfair.

'I cannot answer this. All I know is she's not in _this_ world,' Dolores said curtly.

'But what exactly does that mean?' Hermione asked in agitated tones. Was Katya Malfoy dead? Or had she quit the wizarding world to live as a Muggle, as Draco likely believed?

'That is all I can say on the matter,' Dolores declared, with an air of finality, releasing Katya's rose and fixing Hermione with an admonishing glare.

Hermione heaved a pained sigh. Maybe it was best if they took their chances and headed back to El Calafate for the night…

Dolores was watching her with dark, beady eyes. 'I mean no harm,' she said dejectedly. 'When I _see_ things, I have to say it… I see things about_ you_ too, but I know you will not want to hear them at this moment, so I will say nothing at all…'

'Probably for the best,' Hermione scoffed.

Draco jumped to Dolores's defence. 'Merlin, Hermione! She's just trying to help us; that's all!'

'Is that so? We're hear to find out about Dark Flux… not some bloody gibberish about your wife!'

Draco's silver eyes blazed with anger. 'She says I have a daughter! Don't you think that means something?'

'Sorry, but no. I've always maintained that Divination is stuff and nonsense, and I'm not about to change my tune,' Hermione retorted.

She eyed Dolores and her contentedly suckling child with a steady, unflinching gaze. 'Really, it's not personal.'

'I know,' Dolores said with a kindly smile.

It was the smile that did it. It had all been too much.

'I'm sorry,' Hermione gasped, her throat suddenly dry and aching with unshed tears. 'Can I get some water?'

XXX

Hermione stumbled into a small, dark kitchen illuminated by only a faint glow of streetlights from outside, streaming through the window.

She plucked a glass from a sideboard and turned the tap on, waiting for the water to chug through creaking pipes into the glass. She gazed out of the window at the dark backstreets of Santa Maria. It was a lifeless, drab little place.

She sipped her water in silence, dawdling for what soon passed into long minutes, reluctant to return to Dolores and Draco.

She took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm.

It had been a long and terrible day… the ghastliness of the memory at Senor Canaro's, losing her wand, the horror of poor Ana's lifeless blue corpse, uncannily similar in colour to the evil blue ball which had tortured Jonas Arbuthnot before he was so cruelly murdered, and now this… a sense that a whole new world of dark danger was closing in on them and there was nothing they could do about it.

She desperately needed to rationalise their situation, to apply a little cold, logical thinking. Experience had taught her that this was a surefire way to dampen down her fears and emotions when they were running high, which was certainly the case right now.

Dolores might have unnerved her, but she also lived and worked in Santa Maria and had discovered Ana's body. This meant she had crucial information.

Hermione turned away from the window, already feeling a lot better, when something - she couldn't tell what it was - drew her attention back to the view outside.

There had been a moment. A presence. A feeling that she was being watched.

But there was nobody there. The lane outside the window was deserted.

She pressed her nose directly to the window, her breath fogging the glass, to peer outside.

Nothing. A flutter of large black birds balancing on a telephone wire high above the street, silhouetted against the night sky, that was all.

How odd, she thought, that a wizarding town like Santa Maria even bothered with telephones.

'Dolores met this Danish chap Jonas told us about,' Draco's voice rang out behind her. 'His name's Henrik Thyssen. He came into the bar where Dolores works.'

Hermione could see Draco reflected in the darkened window; a ghostly figure, his pale hair gleaming brightly, partly obscured by the reflection of her own face. His shirt was gaping open, so she guessed Dolores had been checking his wound.

'She says he was heading down to the glaciers. Some place called Perito Moreno,' Draco continued, in what sounded to Hermione like conciliatory tones. 'Maybe we should head that way tomorrow and see what he has to say?'

'I'd rather get going tonight, if we can,' she said uneasily.

Draco's reflection was growing in size as he slowly advanced towards her, until he was so close she could feel the warmth from his body.

'This witch saved our lives tonight, Hermione,' he whispered. 'So please play nice.' His breath was ticklish against her neck. She shivered involuntarily at the sensation.

'I suspect she's very powerful, and we know nothing about her,' Hermione said, turning her head to one side.

Despite his obvious proximity, she was still surprised to find his face so close to her own. In this shadowy half-light, he looked eerily beautiful. All signs of tiredness and stress were erased. Instead, the clear-cut lines of his finely boned cheeks and chin and the shape of his lips were more strongly defined, while his eyes were glowing pools of liquid darkness.

She found she was holding her breath, almost scared that she had ever thought such a thing out loud, even in her own head.

'Let's at least wait till it's light,' Draco murmured.

'I'm sorry about what I said…' Hermione started, but halted, almost unable to speak as an unexpected rush of hot tears flowed down her cheeks. She brusquely wiped them away with the back of her hand. 'The _bloody gibberish_ bit… you know…' She shuddered at the memory. 'I didn't mean any disrespect… I'm not that kind of person, Malfoy.'

Draco didn't reply. She could feel his eyes studying her in the dim light afforded by the faint outside lighting, and flushed with sudden self-consciousness. She had to look dreadful, she realized, after such a harrowing night.

'I don't know what's wrong with me,' she said, looking away to pour herself a fresh glass of water. 'My brain has gone to pieces.'

The sound of Paco crying and Dolores cooing words of comfort drove them back to their current reality. Draco's eyes flicked to the open doorway, then back to Hermione.

'I thought we were going to die tonight, Malfoy,' Hermione said, staying Draco with a glancing touch of her hand on his arm.

'Yeah. Me too,' Draco mumbled, shuffling uncomfortably. 'Kind of concentrates the mind, doesn't it?'

'I feel like we've been set up and I don't know what for,' she added. 'I mean, the original plan was to come here _tomorrow_… if it hadn't been for what we saw in that false memory… the baby… we would never have been in that morgue tonight.'

Draco sucked his lower lip thoughtfully. 'So you think we were lured here to be killed?'

'I don't know,' Hermione sighed. 'It all seems a bit of a coincidence, that's for sure… but way too _elaborate_…'

'I agree. Nobody could have known that we would change our plans and come a day early.'

'So there has to be another reason that memory was modified,' Hermione said. 'Maybe a clue about Dark Flux?'

'The best bet then is to find out _who_ modified the memory, don't you think?'

'Oh, that's obvious,' Hermione said flippantly. 'It had to be Senor Canaro! He had the time and the opportunity.'

'So did Senor Asusto… Or maybe Los Rojos accosted Senor Asusto, cast a false memory charm and Obliviated him?''

'I guess that's possible,' Hermione conceded, tightly pursing her lips. 'But don't forget, it was also Senor Canaro who alerted you to this memory in the first place!'

'Well if that's the case, he can't be working for Jeroboam.'

'Really? I'd have thought Canaro would jump at the chance to rid the world of Muggleborns and Muggle _spawn_!' Hermione said with a sardonic sneer.

'There's no way Jeroboam would want anyone snooping around Dark Flux sites… especially someone like _you_!'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'You're a respected Ministry lawyer. People listen to you.'

'So if we _were_ snooping around,' Hermione said pensively, 'he'd probably want us _killed_, wouldn't he?'

Draco smiled wolfishly. 'Based on the evidence of this evening? I'd say that's a certainty.'

'Well Malfoy,' Hermione said heatedly, 'my gut feeling tells me that Senor Canaro knows much more about this business than he's letting on. The simple fact is we were panicked into coming here by a suspicious memory that _he_ showed us. Moments later he's conveniently disappeared and his house is magically sealed! I want to know why!'

'Since when did _you_ go by gut feeling?' Draco said, eyeing her sceptically. 'Okay Hermione. Here's a plan. Once we've finished up in Santa Maria, let's go see that Danish fellow, then we can head back to Buenos Aires and quiz Canaro.'

They stared intently at each other, forging a silent agreement.

'Is everything alright?' Dolores asked from the doorway.

'Just coming,' Draco muttered apologetically, finally dragging his eyes away from Hermione's, before moving back to the living room.

Hermione turned to retrieve her glass of water which was still standing in the sink - and, in so doing, she caught a quick glimpse of Dolores's face, reflected in the window.

She gasped audibly.

In this half-light, Dolores's large, soulful eyes appeared as two huge black coals swallowing all the light from her face.

Of course it was an illusion, a trick of the night… but for a split-second, Hermione shivered with pure, unadulterated terror.

XXX

Dolores swiftly confirmed that she had met a Senor Asusto on a number of occasions when he had come into the bar to speak to Ana.

'I can't say I warmed to the young man,' Dolores said. 'And I was surprised how much he liked Ana.'

Dolores was tending to Draco's wound, a look of deep consternation on her face.

'Why's that?' Hermione asked.

'Because Ana was a Muggleborn,' Dolores said dolefully. 'Jonas wanted everyone to forget their differences in Santa Maria, but this Senor Asusto thought differently. He was always very pleasant to me, of course, because I'm pureblood, and he took a great interest in the progress of my pregnancy, always bringing me gifts, helping out at the bar when it was busy… although he was more of a hindrance, if I'm being honest. But since… since my husband died, I sometimes take whatever help I can get.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' Hermione said sorrowfully.

'Thanks,' Dolores said tight-lipped. 'Please hold still, Draco! How can I treat you when you keep squirming?'

Draco looked suitably chastened. Dolores doused her fingers in a rosy pink lotion and delicately prodded Draco's bullet-wound. He instantly baulked, but gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes to block out the pain.

'It was a very ordinary day when it happened… the day Ana died,' she said. 'Nothing remarkable.'

'How was the weather?' Hermione asked.

Dolores shrugged. 'Perhaps a little windy? Paco was crying a lot. He's _never_ liked the sound of the wind whistling around the house! And he was so very, very young! Hardly alive. We were both sickly after the birth, although I still had business to attend to at the bar of course. Which is when I found poor Ana…'

'It must have been awful for you!'

'It was shocking, it is true,' Dolores sighed. 'Although I was confused at first because I had seen that same vivid blue skin colour before.'

'Really?' Hermione asked, prickling with curiosity.

'My husband's mother died of Gimlott's Disease. Her body turned a similar blue just before she died.'

'That's fascinating,' Hermione said. She recalled how Tony Goldstein was a leading expert in this field and determined to talk to him as soon as she returned to England.

'Yes, I believe this is usual with victims of Gimlott's Disease. Poor things. They suffer a long, lingering death,' Dolores said, with a mournful sigh.

Draco jerked violently in response to Dolores's cleansing of his wound. His face was flushed scarlet, and he was panting.

'That bloody hurt!' he scolded. 'You trying to kill me?'

Dolores smiled weakly at his outburst, and continued treating and dressing Draco's wound with an air of stolid indifference.

'Of course, I realised it was impossible for poor Ana and the other Muggleborns here who died, to have been suffering from Gimlott's Disease, because it only affects half-bloods, and they also died very suddenly… Please, Draco, stay still!' Dolores yelled.

She placed her hand over the wound and incanted something in Spanish. A yellow glow emanated from her palm, encapsulating the wound in a bubble of golden colour.

'That's scorching hot,' Draco groaned in discomfort. He threw a pained look in Hermione's direction.

'Did you know the other victims well?' Hermione asked, ignoring Draco's histrionics.

'For sure,' Ana said. 'This is a very small town and they were regular visitors to my bar.'

Moments later and the glow had subsided, and Dolores was cheerily bidding Draco get dressed and suggesting he take the sofa for the night – which was a rather unwelcome, lumpen-looking thing, slouched in the corner of the room - while Hermione shared the one and only bedroom with herself and Paco.

Hermione hesitated. Under the current circumstances, she didn't really want to be separated from Draco - not because she craved his company, but because he was her only link to reality.

XXX

Long, sleepless hours had passed, and there was a faint grey light gradually blanching the curtains from the outside, signaling the approach of dawn. Hermione was lying on the bed next to a peacefully sleeping Dolores, half-smothered by Dolores's long black tresses, which had extended onto Hermione's pillow.

Paco was an astoundingly good sleeper, Hermione thought a little enviously, remembering with astonishing, almost nostalgic clarity, the difficulties she had experienced with Hugo. Rose had always slept soundly, but Hugo was too engrossed with the land of the living. He was also a bit of a pig, and had guzzled her dry, she recalled, a broad smile on her face.

She was thirsty again. What was it about this place? She toyed with the idea of slipping out of the bedroom to get a glass of water from the kitchen, but that meant passing through the living room where Draco was sleeping. It really wouldn't be fair to wake him.

She listened to Dolores's deep, sonorous breathing, and the faint whinnying snuffles of baby Paco swaddled in his Moses basket beside his mother's bed.

Come on, daybreak, she pleaded silently. She wanted to get to this glacier. Meet this Henrik Thyssen. And then back to Buenos Aires, first to retrieve her wand from Miguel, and then to face up to Senor Canaro…

She sighed, her brain aching with a confusion of tumbling thoughts and overwhelming tiredness. Dolores' contented sleepy sounds were definitely beginning to grate.

Enough was enough. Hermione swung her legs out of bed and tiptoed out of the bedroom, easing the door closed behind her. She glanced over at Draco's slumbering form on the lumpen sofa and then instantly looked away, her face flooded with burning embarrassment.

Draco was topless and his boxer shorts had slid down over his hips in his sleep, meaning he was much more exposed than he would have liked. He was lying on his side, his face mushed into a cushion. The thin covering Dolores had offered him had fallen off.

His skin glowed silvery smooth in the grey dawn light.

She chanced a quick, curious look, reluctantly caught in unexpected admiration at his lean-limbed physique. His bed sheet had bunched up at the front of his body, concealing most of his chest and groin, but the long sweep of his back leading to the rounded curve of his buttocks was in full view. Her eyes lingered guiltily on the shadowy v-shaped gap between the crumpled sheet and the crook of his thigh and his flat and muscled lower torso.

Hermione hurried into the kitchen. She'd admired him twice in the space of a few hours. This was so very, very wrong. This was none other than bloody Draco Malfoy, for God's sake…

She hastened to the sink, grabbing the same glass she'd used earlier. She splushed fresh water into the glass, allowing it to spill over as she found herself increasingly fascinated by a long line of crows sitting on the grass verge a few metres beyond the window.

They weren't eating, or rooting for worms, or preening themselves, or any of the other everyday birdlike activities she normally associated with such creatures. There was simply an occasional fluttering of wings as one crow moved from one part of the line to another, almost as though they were sharing a conversation. But, for the most part, they seemed to be looking about themselves, heads cocked this way, then that, their dark beady eyes glancing furtively from one end of the lane to the other, glancing upwards, downwards, even straight ahead at the window where she was standing.

What were they waiting for? She wondered. What were they watching?

She raised the glass of water to her lips, the water sloshing over the sides and trickling down her hand as she drank.

One of the crows – the largest, with bold, bristling feathers crowning his sleek black head – suddenly lurched forwards from the rest of the group. With a frenzied flash of wings, he was perched on the windowsill, gazing directly into Dolores's kitchen.

Hermione instinctively pulled back from the window, her heart thumping wildly with an unformed, primal fear.

She could sense the crow's reddish-brown eye scanning the room, so she moved into the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, hoping to avoid its notice.

Surely its eye was too red for a standard crow? Too searching? Too _knowing_? There was something both familiar and awful in the feeling it gave her.

And then it struck her. The unseen pair of eyes at the morgue had sent a similar frisson of alarm careening through her.

She shrieked, the glass crashing from her hand, and smashing onto the floor. The crow hopped in response to the furthest end of the windowsill and peered deep inside.

'What is it?' Draco yelled, flying towards her from the sofa, his bed sheet wrapped clumsily around him like a makeshift toga, hair mussed with sleep.

She ducked out of the crow's view, frantically pushing Draco away from the door, out of sight.

'We have to get out of here! This instant!' she gasped.

'Why? What's happened?' he shouted, holding his bed-sheet closed in one hand, while straining to hold her still with the other.

'We're being watched,' Hermione spluttered, pointing to the kitchen. Draco made a move towards the open door, but she grabbed at him, her hand sliding across his chest as she pulled him towards her and away from the kitchen. 'Don't let them see you!'

'Who?' he asked, his eyes wide and staring.

'The crows, Malfoy!' she cried. 'It's the crows! Los Rojos are Animagi… And they've been waiting for us all night… We have to get out of here fast, or they'll kill us!'

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"EL NINO" by AGNELLI & NELSON**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Thanks to Apurva & Lou.

7


	13. Henrik's Hunch

_**A mystifying meeting with a morbid Muggle who has a chilling theory into what causes 'Dark Flux' deaths…**_

**13. Henrik's Hunch**

Despite the fraught circumstances, Draco still managed to look a little sheepish at his disheveled state, dressed in his makeshift 'bed sheet' toga. Dolores and Paco had woken at the commotion and within minutes both Draco and Hermione were dressed and ready to leave.

Hermione was grateful to both Dolores and Draco for not accusing her of melodramatic paranoia, once she voiced her suspicions that Los Rojos were in fact Animagi. She wondered if the 'Crows' had been watching Draco and herself in Buenos Aires, or even earlier in England, waiting to see if they would come to Patagonia.

Dolores quickly sent an owl to a neighbour of hers – a man she vowed could be trusted – who would help them escape Santa Maria. Moments later, the owl had returned.

Draco then used this owl to send a message to Senor Canaro in Buenos Aires, telling him to expect another visit tomorrow - that was, Wednesday – morning.

'Don't give too much away,' Hermione warned, 'we want to catch him off-guard. And tell him we'll arrive early.'

'Not _too_ early,' Draco remonstrated, 'it all depends on what time we get back to Buenos Aires today.'

'I want to be back in England tomorrow morning, Malfoy,' Hermione said. 'I plan to take a Portkey.'

'But I might still need you here,' Draco said, grabbing hold of Dolores's owl a little too roughly as it tried to squirm free from his grasp while he affixed the note to its leg. The owl pecked at Draco's hand in retaliation. Draco raised his hand, as though tempted to swipe the owl to the floor, but thought better of it.

'As far as I'm concerned,' Draco continued, flushed pink with temper, 'you're Ron's replacement. _He_ would stay if the job needed it.'

'Well, _I'm_ not at your beck and call, Malfoy!'

Draco twisted his mouth into a dismissive sneer. 'Oh, go on, then, little girl. Run along home!'

'I have to. I have –' Hermione slunk a sidelong glance at Dolores who was rocking Paco in her arms, and then dipped her voice, 'I have a Tribunal Hearing at the Ministry on Thursday morning. I need to prepare myself.'

'Of course! I'd forgotten about that,' Draco said, breaking into a surprisingly sunny smile.

Damn him! Hermione thought. So he _had _known at 'Le Bonheur' that night. She'd suspected as much.

'Who told you about it? I'd rather know who's broadcasting my personal affairs to all and sundry!'

Draco burst into loud cackling laughter. 'YOU told me, Hermione. You were pissed out of your brains at the time, so you might be a little hazy on the details.'

He patted Dolores's owl on the head in a much friendlier manner than before and finally managed to securely fasten the note to Senor Canaro.

'That's – that's impossible!' Hermione blustered, although the ghastly recollection of her drunken blurtings was slowly eking back into her consciousness.

Draco winked. 'Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me. I can even give you a trial run-through, if you like.'

Hermione was about to point out that, considering she was a _lawyer _that hardly seemed necessary, when a small, beige Muggle car stopped outside the front door.

Dolores quickly surveyed the street for any sign of danger.

'Your ride,' Dolores announced, gesturing towards the small, beige car. 'They're Muggles. Own a garage outside town. Very friendly, but no English.'

XXX

Hermione and Draco found themselves squeezed into the back of a tiny, beige two-door Mini Clubman with a chocolate-coloured roof. Despite her immense discomfort and nervousness at being squashed so tightly against Draco, Hermione couldn't help giggling.

Their space was further encroached upon, forcing their knees almost into their chest, when Jorge and Raul, their rather portly driver and fellow passenger, occupied the front seats, levering them back to their furthest position to accommodate their hefty bulks.

'Buenos Dias,' bellowed Jorge the driver, flashing them a cheesy, gap-toothed grin. 'Es dos horas!' he added in a loud, nasal voice, holding up two fat fingers and nodding inanely as though he was trying to explain an extremely tricky concept to small children.

'That's _two hours_,' Draco muttered.

'Yes, yes, I think I got that,' Hermione said, smiling and nodding to Jorge in return.

'Vamos a _Los Notros_,' Jorge said, nodding dumbly again, as though somehow this would make him easier to understand.

'Aren't we meant to be going somewhere else?' Hermione asked Draco, a little alarmed.

'Perito Moreno.'

'That's not what he said.'

Draco shrugged. 'I'm sure Dolores has explained it all.'

It was too late, anyway. Jorge had already sped away from Dolores's house and was now hurtling along a long, lonely road at breakneck speed, leaving Santa Maria far behind them.

'Look!' Draco said, pointing to a large brown bird flying high in the vivid blue sky, just beyond the perimeter of the town. 'I think that's Dolores's owl.'

'Well, I guess you did get a particularly good look at the poor thing, seeing as you were about to hit it,' Hermione seethed.

Draco opened his mouth as though planning a particularly pithy retort - but, instead, his face darkened. He was still watching the owl through his window, which was positioned on the left side of the car behind the driver. Once the owl had swung out of view, he swiftly twisted his tall frame around in the seat, his knees smashing into Hermione, half crushing her beneath him.

'I hope there's a good reason for this,' Hermione gasped, almost suffocated by his weight.

Draco was intent on craning his head to look out of the small, pillar-box back window.

'Hermione,' he said, jabbing his index finger skywards. 'Are those birds following our owl?'

He gestured towards a trio of large black birds, ominously resembling over-sized crows, who appeared to be following the owl's progress at a rapid rate.

'I hope not,' Hermione said disconsolately, wriggling round so that she too was facing the back of the car, Draco's warm body pressed against her.

They watched in gloomy silence as Dolores's owl circled higher and higher before disappearing from view, the crows close behind.

'When it comes to raw speed, I'm pretty sure an owl can outstrip a crow,' Draco said confidently.

'And how exactly would _you_ know that?' Hermione sighed, casting him a bemused sidelong glance. Somehow she doubted Draco had a secret fondness for ornithology.

She then desperately tried to squirm her body as far away from Draco as she could possibly manage, to gain a fraction more personal space.

Really, it was wholly inappropriate to be draped over each other like this. Ron would go mad if he could see them.

'Still,' she said, panting a little with the effort, 'we've learned one interesting new fact this morning.'

'What's that then?' Draco said, shuffling back into a forward-facing position.

'Muggles can use owls.'

Draco glanced at Jorge then back to Hermione. 'I still can't see them taking off in the business world, can you?'

They lapsed into silence, vaguely staring out of the window at what appeared to be scrubby wasteland and gravely hillocks bordering a sapphire blue lake. Their route was uneven and bumpy, and from time to time, they were tossed towards each other by deep potholes in the road.

'My Uncle Derek had a car just like this when I was a kid,' Hermione chuckled, 'this must be over thirty years old.'

'Let's hope it stays in one piece, then,' Draco grunted as the Mini surged over a particularly high rut, bouncing his head hard into the ceiling. 'What strange names you Muggles have…' he sneered. 'I mean, really… _Derek,_ what kind of name is _that_?'

'Says the man whose grandfather was called _Abraxas_! What kind of name is _that_?' Hermione retorted.

Draco's face instantly clouded over, almost as though someone had reached inside of him and switched off the light. Hermione couldn't tell if he was angry or upset, and he didn't give her a chance to find out, immediately averting his head from her gaze to stare aimlessly out of his window.

XXX

At some point during the journey, they must have fallen asleep together. When Hermione woke up, she found she was sprawled against Draco, her legs intertwined with his long, sinewy limbs which were extended deep into her side of the car. Her head was resting against his chest, her face nuzzling his throat.

As consciousness gradually kicked in, she became painfully aware of the heavy heat of his arm holding her tightly against him, and a pleasant sensation on the right side of her neck where his large, warm hand was resting.

His thumb was gently tracing small circles on the soft skin just below her hairline.

It was the tiniest of actions - hardly an action at all, really… but still, every nerve in her body suddenly seemed to have centred on that small patch of exposed skin being fondled by his thumb.

It felt nice. Really, really nice, she thought, her throat suddenly dry and her breathing hitched in her chest.

His thumb continued to circle, to stroke, occasionally pausing, then re-starting, each time feeling more sensitive than before, to the point where Hermione felt almost sick with a sudden, surprising surge of mind-reeling arousal which swept through her.

_She had to move_ … except his long, slim fingers were lightly brushing her neck, caressing her ear, tracing its shape with the most delicate of touches. It felt exquisite… so heart-stoppingly wonderful that she had to stifle a moan of pleasure.

She gently eased her face away from his throat and slid her right hand, which was resting close to the site of his wound, across his chest, keenly aware that his nipple pebbled in response to her feather-light touch.

He grumbled, his hand dropping from her neck to sweep her closer into his arms so that his face was now hovering above her own, his breath curling onto her cheeks like a warm zephyr, so close she could almost taste him.

This was wrong - very, very wrong, she thought, fighting an urge to explode into loud pants, almost like she had been holding her breath underwater for far too long and her lungs were aching for oxygen.

She buried her face into his neck, easing her breath out in a long, drawn-out shudder against his skin.

She now noticed his heart was clattering forcefully in his chest. There was a discernible tensing in his limbs and the slow, deliberate slide of the Adam's apple in his throat as he gulped.

Oh God. He's awake, she thought. And, like her too, he seemed to be holding his breath, easing it out in short, stuttering bursts.

She had to stop this now, had to untangle herself from this intimacy.

She made a great show of slow stretching and groaning, pretending to be in the throes of stirring into wakefulness. Then, bit by bit, she rolled her head away from its comfortable nook curled against his warm skin.

She gradually blinked her eyes open and braved a glance sideways, instantly locking her gaze with Draco, whose clear, grey eyes were staring straight at her.

Hermione immediately pulled her eyes away from his, fixing her gaze out of her window instead, her cheeks a-flame with hot embarrassment.

His arm promptly fell away from her shoulder, although he didn't retrieve it entirely, perching it across the back of their seat.

They were now traversing at a rapid rate along a country road which seemed to be getting even bumpier and more rugged by the minute. To her right was a rocky incline and the occasional glimpse of a landscape resembling green and gorsy moorland beyond, bathed in bright sunlight.

She chanced a look to the left, relieved that Draco was also focusing his attention on the scenery beyond his own window.

She caught her breath, mesmerised by the beauty of the landscape. Vast plains covered in a vibrant scarlet flower stretched out before her; a rich, rosy red as far as the eye could see, like fields of blood shimmering in the summer sun. And, behind the fields, the gleaming snake of a wide river, pale and shiny in the fierce white sunlight, was writhing through the countryside.

Draco turned to her, his eyes sparkling. 'Fucking mind-blowing, isn't it?' he grinned.

XXX

_Los Notros_ turned out to be a wooden chalet-style hotel built at the edge of a lake hosting the famous Perito Moreno glacier. It was also the place where Henrik Thyssen, according to the hotel receptionist, had been staying. In fact, he was just finishing a 'trekking' trip on the glacier itself and could be caught if Hermione and Draco hurried.

Hermione had never seen anything as amazing in her life as this monumental expanse of blue-white glacier ice. It reared out of a milky blue lake, jagged and rutted, like a giant dragon's teeth frozen into a fierce grimace, roaring and creaking as huge chunks of ice broke away from the glacier and tumbled into the water below.

A troupe of hardy-looking trekkers, decked out in multi-coloured waterproofs, sporting goggle-style sunglasses which gleamed in the searing white sunshine, was fast approaching the immense, crenulated edge of the Perito Moreno. They boarded a zodiac and came ashore.

A hotel employee helpfully pointed out Henrik Thyssen. He was tall and robustly-built, probably in his mid- to late-twenties, with a lobster-tanned face framed by leonine blonde hair and a self-assured swagger.

'Do you want to do the talking or shall I?' Draco mumbled. They followed Thyssen at a reasonable non-suspicious distance as he ambled towards the comfortable-looking bar at Los Notros with his fellow trekkers.

'But what do we say?' Hermione said, guiltily conscious that they probably should have discussed this already, but since getting 'cuddly' in the car, conversation between them had been a little stilted.

'We mustn't forget he's a Muggle,' Hermione warned, 'so we can't reveal _too_ much about ourselves, or even Dark Flux…'

'I wouldn't dream of it,' Draco scoffed.

Thyssen bought a beer at the bar and then sat outside the hotel on a terrace facing the glacier. He was conveniently alone.

Hermione summoned a waiter to order drinks and was about to ask Draco what he wanted when, to her surprise, she noticed he'd already grabbed a seat next to Thyssen and was introducing himself.

'I was just telling Mr Thyssen here that he was recommended to us by Jonas Arbuthnot,' Draco said chirpily.

Hermione flashed a genial smile at the Dane, who was looking a little baffled by this sudden hijacking. 'Nice man,' Hermione said simply, feeling a pang of sadness as she spoke.

The waiter brought them their drinks - a beer for Draco while Hermione opted for a gin and tonic.

'So you came here on account of these mysterious deaths in Santa Maria?' Henrik said warily.

'That's right,' Draco said. 'For research.'

Thyssen pondered this a moment, silently sipping his beer.

'Kind of odd, don't you think, that there's no media covering this? You sure you're not press?'

Draco vehemently shook his head. 'Absolutely. We're just looking for answers.'

'Join the club,' Thyssen grumbled. 'I've been following sudden mass deaths like this for the last five years for a book I'm writing, and I'm still no closer to really understanding what the hell is going on. What university did you say you're from again, Professor Malfoy?'

'Oxford,' Draco said, after a split second's hesitation.

Henrik nodded sagely. 'I've got an old pal there. Anthropology. Fellow at Oriel, or it could be Merton…'

'My work is almost _entirely_ in the field,' Draco cut in, 'isn't it, Mrs Weasley?' he said turning to Hermione who was quickly scrabbling to process the ramifications of his chosen cover story, and a little taken aback by Draco's stiff formality, which made her feel like little more than his frumpy assistant.

'Call me Hermione,' she said to Henrik, with a warm, syrupy smile.

Henrik's eyes flicked between them curiously.

'Look, I should warn you,' Henrik Thyssen said, 'I actually have to take the next bus out of here, which is leaving in about twenty minutes. There's been a coup in Gabon. Big story. But we can talk until then.'

Hermione couldn't even picture in her mind's eye where Gabon was, relative to this particular spot. A very long way, that was for sure. But then, _everywhere_ felt far away from this place at the end of the world.

'Sounds great,' she said.

She settled herself on a wooden lounger, next to Henrik Thyssen's chair. She was facing away from the hotel towards the small shingle cove which abutted the lake, cordoned off in the bay by the glacier's imposing wall of ice, which seemed to stretch back as far as the eye could see, framed by snowbound mountains.

It was a surreal sight, most particularly as the warm sun on her face, and the addition of a small paper umbrella in her glass of gin and tonic made her feel that she should be gazing out to sea instead.

'How did you know about these deaths in the first place?' Hermione asked, smiling sweetly.

Henrik grinned in response, his azure blue eyes twinkling. 'Now, I'm sure you know a journalist can never reveal his sources, Mrs…. Sorry, Hermione.'

'Of course, Mr Thyssen, I respect that. It's just that it wasn't covered on the news.'

'First up, call me Henrik. Second, how did _you_ find out?'

Hermione instantly looked to Draco.

'A colleague,' he said with a non-committal shrug. 'It seemed mighty suspicious after the recent incident in Bolivia.'

'But what happened _here _is nothing like what happened _there_, I can assure you,' Henrik sighed sadly, pulling an album of photos from his knapsack which he passed to Draco. 'You can take a look, if you like,' he said, passing the album to Draco.

Draco started to thumb through page after page of photos depicting livid, gory images of corpses in various states of decomposition – most situated where they had been discovered, rather than a clinical slab in a morgue. Judging by the trance-like horror on Draco's face, he was finding this a particularly gruesome task.

'That was a tribal village located in tropical rainforest … nothing like Patagonia,' Henrik said. 'An industrial mining conglomerate polluted their water supply.'

'Did you get to take any photos in Santa Maria?' Hermione asked, pointing towards the impressive-looking camera poking out of a knapsack Henrik had placed between his chair and Hermione's lounger.

He shook his head. 'The townsfolk complained. And, for some weird reason, my camera just stopped working… the trip was a disaster.'

He took a long swig of his beer, which frothed onto the thick blond stubble above his upper lip.

'The thing is, most sudden mass death incidents are more like what happened in Bolivia… you know, something _industrial._ And then there's the few intriguing cases – like here in Santa Maria – with no obvious explanation.'

'There has to be some kind of common ground between these cases, surely?' Hermione asked quizzically.

Henrik fixed a steely gaze on Hermione. 'None at all. Except for the fact that the bodies turn bright blue, of course… which I believe was what happened here in Santa Maria, too.'

Hermione could feel her heart beating a little faster.

'That's right, they did,' she said tentatively. 'One girl also had strange purple markings.'

'You got to see the bodies? Oh man!' Henrik exclaimed, wide-eyed with wonder. 'Did you take any photos?'

Draco vehemently shook his head.

'It wasn't much fun,' Hermione grimaced. 'Have you any idea at all what's causing these deaths?'

'If I knew that, I'd have my book published by now,' Henrik guffawed. 'But I'm at a bit of …' he seemed to be searching for the appropriate word, '… an impasse.' He suddenly sobered. 'Actually, I do have a theory… more of a hunch, really…'

'What's that?' Hermione asked eagerly.

'I've come to the conclusion that there's a serial killer on the loose.'

'_A serial killer_?' Draco repeated, snapping shut the photo album he was holding. 'Are you serious?'

'Absolutely, Professor Malfoy… I'm convinced there's a malevolent force at work, linking what appear to be random events in random places. Worryingly, the number of unexplained sudden mass deaths is accelerating rapidly.'

'_We_ believe this is a naturally occurring phenomenon,' Draco said, sucking his bottom lip thoughtfully. 'Perhaps a kind of mysterious _dust_?'

'You have scientific data to prove this?' Henrik asked.

'Nothing concrete.'

'Hmmm… the only time I ever heard of any unusual dust was last year in The Ukraine, when dust-clouds swept through a small country town. Four folks died in mysterious circumstances almost identical to here in Patagonia,' Henrik said, a pensive expression on his face. 'Probably a coincidence.'

A white mini-bus with the _Los Notros _logo slapped onto its side had pulled up in the car park alongside the hotel. Henrik drained his beer.

'You staying here?'

Draco jumped upwards. 'No. We need to get back to El Calafate.' Dolores had told them about a Public Magical Transportation Office, complete with a Floo network, close to the airport.

'Well, hitch a lift, and we can continue talking. I'm getting the next flight out to Buenos Aires,' Henrik explained, zipping his belongings into his knapsack. 'You flying, too?'

'Actually no… no, we've got some unfinished business to attend to.'

XXX

They were the only passengers on the mini-bus to El Calafate, which was as well, because Henrik was gleefully brandishing some photos of the Ukrainian 'blue-bodied' corpses he had managed to track down.

One photo in particular caught Hermione's attention – it was of a young woman, about Ana's age, similarly blue with purple markings.

'These are the welts I was talking about earlier,' she said to Henrik, pointing at this particular photo.

He examined it, his tanned face creased into a deep frown.

'I've only seen this a couple more times,' he said softly. He rooted into his knapsack pulling out his mobile phone, then flipped through some photos he had stored on there. 'There's this one and… here.'

Two similarly marked victims, both women. Hermione hazarded a guess that one was a rural worker of some kind, likely from somewhere in Asia, whereas the other looked like a smartly dressed businesswoman.

'The first shot was taken in Vietnam. There were two incidents at separate sites last year.'

'Two in the same year? That's terrible,' Hermione said, aghast.

Henrik sighed. 'Thirteen dead, in all.'

'And _this_ lady?' Draco said, pointing at the photo of the businesswoman.

'Paris. 2008. My first real investigation. Caused quite a stir, because it was in the West. Got blamed on a gas leak, if I remember rightly. The autopsies showed no sign of infection or poison.'

'So when it comes to mystery cases, we're definitely talking The Ukraine, twice in Vietnam – all last year - Paris in 2008, and now here in Argentina,' Hermione said. 'What about Ecuador?' she added, remembering Canaro's assertion that Los Rojos had been active there, too.

Henrik shook his head dubiously. 'There were rumours last year of suspicious deaths in _New Zealand_, which I still need to verify, and a very serious attack in _Egypt _earlier_ this_ year, which wiped out half a village…'

'How dreadful!' Hermione cried.

'And I'm pretty sure there's been other intermittent cases over the years that I haven't had the time or resources to check out,' Henrik said.

'We know for sure of one historical precedent; a town in Russia, called Zametsky,' Draco asserted. 'There were multiple sudden, unexplained deaths recorded at the start of the last century.'

'_Zametsky_?' Henrik yelped. 'That's now in The Ukraine. That's where I was investigating last year!'

Draco looked a little stunned to hear this. 'Really? I'm amazed we haven't heard about it.'

'That's almost too much of a coincidence, surely?' Hermione added.

They were now passing a sign for Santa Maria.

The journey to El Calafate had passed much more quickly in this corporate mini-bus than when they had been snugly cocooned in the Mini Clubman, heaving its way through rutted terrain like a small boat on a stormy sea. The trip this morning now felt like a voyage through another time, another world.

She thought back to the dust-cloud Henrik had mentioned in Zametsky. Was there a connection? Santa Maria was such a wind-swept, barren sort of place. And, thinking about it, Jonas had referred to the strong winds. And Dolores too had said how Paco was crying on the day Ana died because of the winds whistling around her house.

Would the locals even notice a dust-cloud in that place? she wondered.

But Paris? That was a different story altogether. A dust-cloud leaving corpses in its wake would attract considerable media attention.

'Henrik,' Draco said abruptly, 'in the course of your travels, have you met anyone who's actually witnessed someone _dying_ from this sickness?'

'Whenever I visit a site, I try to interview almost everyone who has discovered a victim. I have transcripts,' Henrik replied. Hermione made a mental note to check these out if she ever got the opportunity. 'But you know what? I don't think anyone has ever told me how somebody actually dies. They always seem to find the body once it's dead.'

'You mean, they always die alone,' Hermione said glumly.

'And suddenly,' Draco said.

For a brief moment, they locked eyes. There was a haunted expression on Draco's face that bothered her greatly.

He quickly looked away towards the vast open spaces which bordered the roadside instead.

XXX

At the airport, they retrieved the metal attaché case containing the scanner. Henrik flipped it open with consummate ease, pulling out what looked like a chunky, polycarbonate gun festooned with an array of brightly coloured buttons which he turned over, again and again, in his hands, a puzzled half-smile on his face.

'So Professor Malfoy, you say _this _can detect the _dirty dust_ you've heard might be causing this fatal sickness?' he asked, seemingly incredulous. He looked Draco in the eye. 'Have you tried this yourself? I don't see how this works.'

Draco avoided eye contact, looking distractedly about the airport as though seeking out someone or something. 'My research students have tried it out at several locations.'

'Have they had any success?' Henrik said fiddling with the controls and looking a little nonplussed when a tiny red light suddenly ignited then disappeared. 'Woah! Was that saying there was this _dirty dust_, here, at this airport?'

Hermione instantly chilled. The airport was jammed with travellers.

'Sorry guys, it's definitely _me _causing this light to flash… see?' Henrik chortled. The red light was flickering on and off, primarily triggered, it seemed, by Henrik's index finger pressing a small, knobbly grey button positioned at the top of the gun.

'Look, you're nice people, so I'll be straight with you,' Henrik said. 'I'm not buying into this _dirty dust_ theory; I still think we've got a serial killer out there. But, in the spirit of intellectual enquiry, I'd be interested to come along on an expedition with you, see how this scanner-thing really works. And maybe you can change my mind?' Henrik said, wielding the scanner in an ungainly fashion that Hermione feared might attract unwanted attention. She scanned their immediate vicinity for security personnel.

'Just put that thing away, will you?' she hissed.

Henrik instantly locked the gun back into its case and handed it to Draco.

'So which one of you should I contact first if I hear of more suspicious deaths?' he said, his eyes shining with amusement. He turned to Draco. 'I guess you'll be far too busy working in the field to be contacted easily, Professor Malfoy.' He grinned at Hermione. 'Maybe it would be better if Hermione here could furnish me with her contact details instead?'

Draco was stony-faced, a grim set to his mouth. 'I can jot down her mobile telephone number for you. How's that?'

Henrik passed him a card and a pen and, sure enough, to Hermione's surprise, Draco did write down a number and her name in capitals – MRS WEASLEY – and passed it back to the grinning Dane.

Henrik slipped it into his wallet with what Hermione feared was half a wink in her direction. If he'd already guessed Malfoy was shamming his 'Professorship,' then it didn't augur well for his future co-operation in this mess, she thought miserably.

'I'd be really interested to go over your research with you,' Hermione said jovially.

Henrik eyed her thoughtfully. 'Sure, Hermione.' He fished out another card from his pocket and passed it to Hermione. 'This is the address of my website - I post regular updates on any sudden mass deaths.'

Draco glanced at the Flight Information Board behind them. 'Your plane's been called, Mr Thyssen.'

'We'll speak again,' Henrik said to them both in jocular tones. 'This has all been extremely… illuminating. Thank you.'

'Malfoy,' Hermione said, watching Henrik stride purposefully into the heart of the airport. 'I don't actually have a mobile phone.'

'You do now,' he muttered darkly.

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"ELECTRICAL STORM (WILLIAM ORBIT MIX)"** by** U2**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Thanks to Apurva & Lou.

7


	14. Tango

_**Back in Buenos Aires. Paranoia, jealousy and the pitfalls of mutual attraction predominate...**_

**14. Tango**

The chintzy floral fabrics and staid Louis XVI furniture of her room at the Alvear Palace Hotel in Buenos Aires were oddly comforting to Hermione. What felt like an age since she had last been here was little more than twenty-four hours, but so much had happened in the meantime.

She was glad to be going home tomorrow morning, that was for sure, even if it meant she was heading back to her Tribunal at the Ministry. Defending herself from bigoted bureaucrats would be a lot less dangerous than evading evil wizards.

Plus, it could only be a good thing – a _very_ good thing – to get away from Draco.

Hermione was honest enough with herself to know that something had changed there, something she was struggling to grapple with… a whole new, unexpected level of consciousness and intimacy.

If she closed her eyes for the briefest of moments and relived the feel of his fingers brushing against her skin when they were crushed close together in that poxy Mini Clubman, she found she could hardly breathe all over again.

But this wasn't just about admitting that she found Draco attractive. Finding someone attractive could be conveniently ignored. It was something most people did everyday. This was more than that. It was about _seeing_ _him_, having a genuine _sense_ of somebody, an innate feeling for their thoughts and moods.

She quickly pushed these thoughts aside. They had an appointment with Miguel Culebra to collect her wand, and she was already running late.

There was hardly any time to refresh herself, so she quickly brushed her teeth, smoothed back her hair, and smeared a dash of gloss onto her lips before donning one of Draco's dresses; a nicely-fitted knee-length number in soft violet silk, which sashayed pleasantly over her hips before flaring a little over the knee.

She rummaged in her bag for her two way mirror, thinking it would be a good idea to quickly contact Ron, tell him she was due back tomorrow morning, only to find that she had actually forgotten to take the mirror to Patagonia in the first place, and had left it on her bedside table. Thank God she'd come back to Buenos Aires, she thought, almost faint with relief. Ron would never have forgiven her if she had lost it for good.

Ron promptly responded when she called his name.

'I've been worried sick about you,' Ron said, looking extremely unworried, Hermione thought a little peevishly. On the contrary, he looked bright and cheery, so much so she suspected he'd had a beer or two. She could hear voices in the background and expected he had company.

'Did you get my owl?'

'Yeah. It came earlier today. Looked a bit bedraggled, poor thing. I take it you went to Patagonia?'

Hermione paused before answering, marveling at his lightness of tone.

'Yes, we did. It was all a bit… unpleasant.'

There was a commotion in the background. Someone was speaking to Ron.

'Who's there?' Hermione asked.

'Tom Bennet and Tana.' Ron beamed. 'Looks like Tana's going to be my partner in Section A. She's just been promoted.'

Hermione smiled. Tana McLaughlin had worked with Ron as an Auror for many years in Section D and had proved to be a loyal and caring friend to the family, and Ron in particular.

'Ginny's here,' Ron said stiffly, his eyes widened in warning. There was a flash of rich auburn hair and then Ginny's face came into view in the mirror, jockeying for space with her brother, her bright, brown eyes dancing with merriment.

'Hey, Hermione!' she yelped excitedly. 'How's tricks?'

Hermione managed a half-smile.

'Getting lots of work done?' Ginny asked.

Okay… Hermione thought. What had Ron told her?

'Yes, lots,' she nodded. 'I'm home tomorrow.'

'Oh, good,' Ron said. 'The kids will be back from Shell Cottage. I think Hugo's driving Fleur spare.'

Hermione smiled indulgently.

'Give my love to Bob and Jean,' Ron said hastily.

So _that_ was the explanation for her absence! A few days with her parents.

'Is Harry with you?' she asked.

'He's at a conference… can't remember where…' Ginny said flippantly. 'I'm here to prime Ron on his next big case!' she gushed.

'What's that then?' Hermione asked, feeling a little aggrieved. If Ron had seen the stuff _she'd_ seen these last couple of days, he wouldn't have time to take on new cases.

'Quidditch match-rigging!' Ron said, smacking his lips enthusiastically.

'Oh, good,' Hermione said weakly, the mirror slipping a little from her grasp. She quickly re-focused it back to her face as she didn't want Ginny to notice that she wasn't actually sitting in her parent's living room in Parson's Green but was in a rather grandiose hotel room instead.

'He's plugging me for all my old contacts from when I was reporting for the sports desk at the _Daily Prophet_,' Ginny teased. 'Still, it's all worth it. The sport's rotten to the core. Looks like Ferret-face might take a hit on this one too.'

'Malfoy?'

'Up to his eyeballs, apparently,' Ginny sniggered.

'That's not necessarily true, Gin,' Ron groaned.

There was a loud banging on Hermione's bedroom door.

'Hermione!' Draco's voice shouted out. 'It's me.'

Oh lord, Hermione thought.

'So why else are the Wasps being subjected to a full investigation, Ron?' Ginny asked, rounding on her brother. 'Mind you, with Malfoy at the helm, it's the least they deserve.'

'Malfoy's only on the board; that's all.'

There was a further knocking on the door, but this time, a little less forcefully.

'Well if you ask me, it had to be match-fixing which won the Wasps the league last year,' Ginny continued in acerbic tones, 'because their Chasers are utter crap!'

'I've got to go,' Hermione butted in, but Ginny clearly didn't hear her.

'… Everyone in the sport knows Malfoy's behind most of the dodgy deals that have been going on in Quidditch lately.'

Draco lightly tapped on the door again, slowly, insistently, reminding Hermione that he was still there and probably listening to every damned word her sister-in-law was ranting. Then he stopped. His silence was deafening.

'Ginny, please…' Hermione begged.

'And now Ron's got his big chance to bring the slimy ferret down, once and for all,' Ginny said triumphantly, 'and do us all a favour.'

Hermione sighed, feeling a little nauseous. 'I'm going now,' she said firmly. 'There's someone at the door.'

Ron looked aghast.

'Okay, love. See you tomorrow…. And my back's a lot better, by the way,' he added, almost as an afterthought, although Hermione wondered if there was a faint trace of irony in his voice. She'd completely forgotten about his darned back. Really. What the hell was wrong with her these days?

Hermione buried the mirror at the bottom of her case. She couldn't risk Ginny accidentally hearing Draco's voice.

When she opened the door, Draco was leaning against the doorpost, arms folded, and a twisted smile on his face.

'They're not very soundproof these doors, you know that?'

'I'm so sorry,' Hermione breathed, shaking her head.

Draco shrugged. 'Come on. Miguel's expecting us.'

XXX

Miguel Culebra had commandeered a comfortable brown leather sofa positioned conveniently at the front of a bar, which opened out onto the bustling boardwalks at Puerto Madero waterfront, Buenos Aires's swankiest riverside district.

He was enjoying a splendid view of the waterfront, its myriad shiny, upmarket bars and restaurants packed with a cross-pollination of late liquid lunchers and early revelers.

The wooden boardwalk was thronged with tanned tourists in sun-hats, applauding tango dancers, clitter-clattering in clippity heels, swaying and swinging to the jaunty, jingly throb and beat of tango music. The dancers were busking in pairs along the entire length of the riverbank, as far as the eye could see, and had drawn a good crowd.

Hermione couldn't help but feel buoyed by the lively atmosphere, seduced by the silvery ripples of the late afternoon sun glistening on the water.

The tango dancers provided an intriguing, even sexy spectacle. Some ladies were trussed into tight corsets, diamante suspenders and feathered garters. Others wore sparkling, slinky dresses, which were caressed and stroked by their male dancing counterparts, in their tight-fitting trousers and open-necked shirts. Hermione thrilled to it all, the tango's raw sexual melodrama and playful flirtation.

Miguel Culebra was instantly charming, welcoming her to a front-row seat alongside him on the brown leather sofa, while Draco occupied a matching armchair to her right. Miguel quickly ordered a bottle of wine from a passing waiter with a practiced wave.

'_Una copa_ for the lovely Senora?' he said with a toothsome grin, bottle poised at the rim of her glass.

'Just a small one,' she said. Miguel leaned across to pour her wine, and in so doing, he closed the gap between them on the sofa, jamming his warm thigh tightly against hers.

Miguel looked at Draco, bottle in hand, but Draco was watching the antics of a scantily clad dancer draped in a pink feather boa who was performing with her partner directly in front of where they were seated.

Miguel continued to pour Draco a large glass of wine before switching his attention to Hermione.

'I have a little something of yours,' he grinned, plucking her wand-necklace from his pocket, which he presented to her with obsequious ceremony.

She snatched it greedily from his hands, melting with relief.

'A most unusual design,' Miguel murmured. 'Does it have special significance?'

'It was a gift,' she said, trying to fasten it around her neck with some difficulty as her hair kept getting in the way. Miguel lurched closer towards her to assist. Hermione automatically veered sideways, out of his reach. Draco leaned forwards instead, tilting her towards him. He scooped her abundant hair to one side, then fastened her necklace with light, nimble fingers.

To her profound irritation, she could feel a hot blush stealing across her cheeks, which she disguised as best she could by pretending to choke a little at the smoke from a cigarette Miguel had just lit.

'Was it from your husband?' Miguel asked.

'My necklace?'

'Of course,' Miguel said sharply, inhaling deeply on his cigarette.

'Yes – yes, it was,' Hermione lied. 'Thank you so much for retrieving it for me.'

Miguel blew a long plume of blue-grey smoke in Draco's direction.

'And thanks for the lift to Patagonia,' she added.

'It was my pleasure. The jet is not my personal property, sadly, but belongs to our parent company, Astrum.' His eyes shone excitedly. 'However, it is very much at my disposal whenever I wish.'

'I didn't know your company had been bought out? When did this happen?' Draco interjected, clearly perturbed by this development.

'The deal was finalised just last week, so nothing much has changed yet. Astrum's a European company, rebranded for the Latin American market.'

'Will this affect your contracts with Herb Healing?'

'Not at all! Astrum is entirely research-based. They're the geeks in the labs. We simply sell what they make to the general public. All the key marketing decisions remain _my_ territory,' Miguel said smugly. 'And I get more money for making them! Not to mention more perks!'

'How convenient,' Draco said snidely, downing his glass of wine in one swoop. 'Why do I get the horrible feeling I'm being kept out of the loop these days? No-one tells me anything…'

He gestured with his glass towards Miguel, clearly demanding a refill. 'It's been a hard day,' he said, with a pained grimace.

Miguel exploded into loud guffaws of mocking laughter. 'In the company of Senora Weasley? How could that be possible?'

Draco wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. 'It's been tiring. That's all.'

'You need cheering up, my friend!' Miguel bellowed, eagerly sloshing fresh wine into Draco's glass. 'I take it this is your first visit to Buenos Aires, Senora Weasley?' he asked, continuing his ebullient tone.

'Yes it is.'

'And does the Alvear Palace Hotel meet your approval?'

'Very much so.'

'Draco told me you had lunch at MALBA? Did you have a chance to view the art gallery while you were there?'

'Not this time, no.'

'It's not a very good collection anyway,' Miguel said, pursing his lips in distaste. 'You have better paintings back home.'

'Oh, you've been to England?'

'Many times… I used to play polo and we frequently toured England, amongst other wonderful European destinations,' Miguel said. 'I've even played polo in Ottery St Catchpole, would you believe?'

In fact Hermione found that rather hard to believe, seeing as polo wasn't even played there. Come to think of it, she hadn't even told Miguel that she_ lived _in Ottery St Catchpole. Presumably Draco had.

Miguel then turned his attention to Draco. 'In fact, the last time we met, was in England, wasn't it? You remember that funny little place we went to in Chipping Bassett? What a hoot we had! And there was that lovely, sassy blonde, if I recall.'

'No. She was in Hartingford. After Fenster's wedding,' Draco said in dry tones.

'So she was! So she was!'

The two men fell into a long, involved discussion along these lines, mainly reminiscing about rowdy drinking sessions and sexual conquests.

It seemed most peculiar to see Draco laughing so naturally and easily with a Muggle. To be honest, it was peculiar enough seeing him laugh at all, Hermione thought, daintily sipping her glass of wine.

She watched him, as subtly as possible, from behind her wineglass. Yes, Draco was different in the Muggle world. There was something more open and lively in his manner.

He also had _presence_, which surprised her. She'd supposed that someone so prominent in the wizarding world would be subsumed by the seething mass of Muggle humanity, but it was as though his personality, his moods, even his grumpiness, were all magnified, almost electrified. He prickled with a quirky, patrician charisma.

Maybe he was more relaxed? There were no prior expectations, no infamous family connections. She herself had often enjoyed getting away from being _Hermione Granger/Weasley_, with all the high acclaim and constant scrutiny that entailed, whenever she visited her Muggle family.

'If you'd just excuse me,' Miguel said suddenly, jumping up from the sofa with surprising alacrity considering how snugly entrenched he'd been. 'There is a friend I must speak with.'

Miguel approached a man in a suit loitering by the bar, slapping a large, friendly hand on his shoulder.

'He's quite a character,' Hermione said.

Draco nodded in agreement.

Hermione caught a waiter's attention and signaled for an espresso. After such a long and tiring day she needed a quick pick-me-up before she made her way back to the hotel, as she suspected Miguel and Draco had their own plans. Then it struck her that she didn't actually have any money.

'Malfoy,' Hermione said apologetically, 'this is kind of embarrassing, but could I borrow some cash?'

'What for?'

'A taxi,' Hermione said. 'Oh, and to pay for this coffee,' she added as an afterthought, staring guiltily at the tiny china coffee cup the waiter promptly deposited on the table in front of her.

'Miguel will pay,' Draco grunted distractedly.

'I still need to get a taxi,' Hermione remonstrated.

'Not alone, you don't.'

'I beg your pardon.'

'You heard me.' Draco swigged his wine. 'I don't want you wandering around this place on your own.'

'How very touching,' she said, flashing him a phony grin. 'But I can look after myself. Particularly now I've got my wand back.'

'For fuck's sake, Hermione. I don't like the idea of ME walking around alone after what we witnessed in Santa Maria, let alone you.' He fixed her with an insolent glare. 'Ron would kill me if something happened.'

'Oh, I see. Well, isn't that just typical?' Hermione said archly. 'You're not actually concerned for my personal welfare at all, but more worried about saving your own skin.'

'Look, it's a very dangerous world out there, Hermione,' he grunted.

'I think I've twigged that, Malfoy!' she said sarcastically.

Draco paused to drink more wine. He was drinking very quickly, Hermione thought. The bottle Miguel had ordered was completely empty.

'You've no idea… Dark Flux isn't the _only _magical material that kills by blood type, you know… There's other curses and potions.'

'That's hardly new. There's always been dark magic artefacts which distinguish between purebloods and Muggleborns.'

'I'm talking _stockpiles, _Hermione,' Draco said, a haunted expression in his eyes. 'You're going to need extra protection when you get back home, too.'

Hermione was a little taken aback by his earnestness. Maybe his close brush with Voldemort and his murderous Death Eaters when he had been a teenager had affected him more deeply than she had ever supposed?

He had truly seen the face of evil.

But, unfortunately, it was because of that same background and his associates that she still struggled to trust him… increasingly against her own wishes.

'The fact you even know this stuff really scares me, Malfoy,' Hermione sighed. 'For all I know, by working with you, I'm now in cahoots with dark wizards!'

'Ephraim isn't a dark wizard,' Draco said assuredly.

'And what of this Torquil Haast?'

'Harmless.'

'In _your _opinion…'

'Ask Ron. Anyway, you can see for yourself. Torquil always comes to the Yuletide Ball at Malfoy Manor.'

'Well, seeing as Ron and I haven't actually been _invited_, that's hardly relevant.'

'But of course you're invited,' Draco said. 'And you'll meet Scorpius, too.'

'Look Malfoy,' Hermione said in firm, furious tones. 'Just because we're stuck together on this mission of yours, doesn't mean we're friends. Alright?'

Draco's clear, grey eyes darkened. 'I never said we were!' he growled. 'I was being polite.'

Miguel returned, jovially swinging another bottle of wine which he promptly used to refill his and Draco's wineglass. Hermione refused.

'Sorry to abandon you,' Miguel said, a small smile on his face. 'You seem flustered, Senora Weasley. Has something happened?'

'No, nothing, I'm fine,' Hermione lied. 'Just a little tired. I was about to head back to the hotel.'

'_Que Pena_! What a shame! How long are you in town?' Miguel asked in jocular tones, his knee banging against her thigh in an insistent manner.

'Until tomorrow,' she said shortly.

'Then tonight, we will go dancing, no?' Miguel exclaimed, looking like he might burst with happiness. 'You have no qualms, Draco, if your lovely friend accompanies us?'

Draco took a long, deep drink of his wine and shook his head. 'Not at all. I was going to suggest it myself.'

'_Maravilloso_!' Miguel said gleefully. 'We will have a famous night to remember, no?'

XXX

Miguel texted through details about their evening, just minutes after Draco and Hermione had hailed a taxi to get back to the hotel.

Draco scowled. 'He says you're to dress up, apparently. He so obviously fancies the pants off you, it's disgusting!'

'No he doesn't, he's just teasing,' Hermione sighed, 'and who cares if he did? I'm a married woman. Nothing's ever going to happen.'

'He's an attractive man.'

'What of it?'

'Ah… so you don't deny that you find him attractive then…'

Hermione groaned. 'You're such a _child_.'

Draco continued scrolling through the texts on his mobile phone when he stopped, his gaze lingering on his mobile phone screen, a deepening frown on his face.

'What's wrong?' she asked.

'Your Danish friend, Mr Thyssen,' he muttered.

'He's hardly my friend, Malfoy! He's _our informant_,' Hermione spluttered.

'He's texted you.'

'_Me_? That's _your_ phone.'

'After tonight, it's yours,' Draco said.

'After tomorrow morning, I won't be your _assistant_, _Professor_,' Hermione said, rolling her eyes sardonically. 'So _you_ can be Henrik's contact instead.'

'If you hadn't noticed, he only wanted to deal with you!' Draco said, curling his lip in distaste.

'So what does he say?' Hermione said impatiently.

'He wants to meet you when you get back to the UK – in London. He has something "extremely important" he wants to discuss with you,' Draco drawled. 'Well it can't be that fucking important! He only saw you this morning.'

Draco flipped his phone shut, and stared out of the window, grinding his teeth in silent fury.

XXX

Hermione had ordered a light meal from room service and managed a long soak in the bath. She was soon to meet Draco in the bar downstairs. Miguel was sending a limousine to pick them up – another perk from Astrum, apparently.

She gazed at the dusky pink silk shift which she had yearned for, spread out on her bed. Of course, seeing it as an object of desire in a boutique window was quite different to actually wearing it. And pink _wasn't_ her colour.

This particular pink was labelled 'Cenizas de Rosas', which was translated in parentheses on the label as '_Ashes of Roses'_. She slipped it on, reveling in the feel of the soft, silky fabric against her bare skin. She rarely wore clothes like this. But she had braved the world in Fleur's red dress; surely she could do the same again here?

She was surprised at how well 'Cenizas de Rosas' suited her colouring. With her hair flowing free and tousled, she looked rather pretty.

But there was one major sticking point. Her bra looked cumbersome and bulky, puckering the dress's delicate fabric. But once she'd removed it, the diaphanous silky material clung to every line and curve of her body, leaving very little to the imagination. Her nipples were clearly visible, a dark rosy pink under the thin fabric, and there was a slight dent over her navel.

She deliberated for a good few minutes. She knew she looked good, even sexy, which was kind of shocking for her, to be honest. But she also knew she was not the daring sort of person to be wearing see-through clothes.

Hermione was torn between her natural reticence and a strange desire to be somebody else… even if it was for just for one evening.

There was a sharp knock on the door that she already recognised as Draco's. He was far too early. This couldn't be about his wound; he'd assured her that there'd been no more bleeding or oozing and, best of all, no more pain since last night.

'What do you want?' she huffed, reluctantly opening the door.

Draco barged past her into the room, throwing himself heavily onto her bed.

He was dressed from head to toe in black, his bright blond hair glowing in stark contrast.

His head was flopped backwards against her pillow, his long legs, clad in black denim, stretched out before him. He'd brought a glass of iced brown liquid which Hermione guessed might be whisky, which he dangled perilously from his hand over the side of her bed.

'I knew not to trust that Danish guy!' he railed. 'The moment I met him, I knew there was something not quite right… he was almost too welcoming! Too friendly!'

'Oh, of course,' Hermione muttered. 'Because being nice is such a bad thing, isn't it? Don't you ever get tired of thinking like a Slytherin?'

Draco ignored her. 'I spoke to Torquil earlier… asked him to check out this Henrik Thyssen's credentials.'

'How very trusting of you…'

'And guess what?'

Hermione headed into her bathroom. 'Amaze me!' she called.

She rummaged in her toiletry bag for a touch of makeup, and pulled out mascara and a lipstick, which she applied using the glaring, bright light positioned above the bathroom mirror

'So far, they've turned up nothing! The guy doesn't seem to exist!' Draco shouted from the bedroom.

'Maybe Henrik Thyssen's just his pen-name? He's a photo-journalist, remember… did you get Torquil to check for by-lines in the Muggle media?' Hermione yelled back in return.

'Of course he did! Torquil's nothing if not thorough. But think about it, Hermione. If Henrik's not who he says he is, who is he?' Draco said irritably. Then, his voice suddenly much nearer. 'And why would he have so many ghastly pictures of Dark Flux victims?'

Hearing this, Hermione felt a little sickened. Yes, if true, that would be very odd indeed.

She could see in the mirror that Draco was now standing in the doorway between her bedroom and the bathroom and was staring directly at her. She burned with sudden self-consciousness and felt almost afraid to turn and face him, as she waited for some caustic comment about her ridiculously see-through dress.

She knew he'd noticed. She could feel his eyes, hard gunmetal grey, sliding over her body, but his face was implacable.

'He's definitely a Muggle, though, he didn't lie about that,' she said breezily, trying to ignore the sudden weighty silence which had fallen between them.

She smoothed down her hair and then pushed roughly past him to return to the bedroom. She could sense he was following her every move with his eyes and was thankful that she only had a single bedside lamp lit, ensuring the bedroom was darker than the bathroom, where she had felt more fully exposed to his gaze.

She seated herself on the Louis XVI chair, quickly re-adjusting her dusky pink dress which had risen high up her thighs, exposing long, smooth limbs, and pulled on a pair of high-heeled open-toed sandals. These had been acquired that afternoon, courtesy of Draco's corporate credit card, once she'd explained at length, in tones that Ron would have described as her nagging best, how she couldn't possibly doll up for a night out without them.

'Don't forget,' she continued, casting a sidelong glance at Draco, 'Henrik was able to open the scanner case.'

'What are you wearing?' Draco eventually said, looking a little shell-shocked.

Hermione cowered a little under his heated gaze. She raised one leg at a time, and wiggled each foot, displaying each sandal to its best advantage.

'You bought them for me this afternoon, don't you remember?'

'No. The dress,' he said hoarsely.

Hermione blushed hotly, searching with unsteady hands for a pair of earrings that she had left on the antique table.

'You bought the dress for me, too, Malfoy. When we first arrived here.'

Once she'd found the earrings, she put them on with the aid of a small dressing table mirror. She could see Draco's face looming behind her. He was still staring fixedly at her, a curious, pensive expression on his face. Did he like what he saw? Or was he hating her? She couldn't tell, and really, she told herself, she shouldn't care either.

'So… do we think it's a good idea I meet Henrik Thyssen or not?' she said slowly, trying to elicit some conversation, move them back to a normal footing.

'He might be dangerous. For all we know, he works for Jeroboam. Remember, Red Star employs a lot of Muggles.'

'All the more reason to keep tabs on him then, don't you think?' Hermione said, swinging round to face him. Her hand automatically felt for her wand pendant. She broke into a relieved smile to feel its reassuring presence.

'You can't go alone,' Draco said.

'Oh, I won't,' Hermione grinned. 'I'll take Ron.'

XXX

Miguel was waiting for them in the Cigar Bar, reclining on a plush cream sofa, plumped up on all sides by leopard-skin patterned cushions.

Hermione felt she had stepped into the saloon of a 1930s cruise liner, complete with long metallic bar, art deco motifs, an array of glasses and bottles glinting in the low-pitched lighting, and the pleasant brassy throb of a big band orchestra playing over the sound system.

Miguel downed his beer and hastened towards them, a huge grin plastered on his face.

'You know, you don't have to come along if you don't want to,' Draco said to Hermione in hushed tones.

'And there I was thinking you didn't want to leave me alone, just in case some big bad wizard in a red dress attacked me,' Hermione retorted. She glared at him angrily.

'How lovely to see you both!' Miguel exclaimed. 'Hermione! You look like a goddess, no? Our car is waiting outside.'

Miguel hurried them out of the hotel onto the street where it was still balmy warm, in spite of the late hour. A black limousine awaited them with a uniformed chauffeur in attendance.

'All I'm saying,' Draco continued, standing close to Hermione, 'is that when Miguel and I go out together, things tend to get a bit raucous… wine, women and song, that kind of thing…'

'Nothing I can't handle,' Hermione sniped, although privately she was having doubts. She wasn't what one could call a rip-roaring party girl.

'Don't be so sure of that,' Draco said cockily, but then he stopped short, his eyes wide in terror.

'What is it?' Hermione asked in alarm. She followed the direction of his eyes. He was staring at a large black crow standing on the pavement.

'Look, Malfoy. Sometimes a bird's just a bird!' she said, in as casual a manner as possible. 'Come on!'

The crow flew away, alighting on a tree on the other side of the road. Hermione shivered involuntarily, then stepped into the waiting limousine, Draco close behind her.

XXX

CHAPTER TRACKS: **"JALOUSIE" by JACOB GADE **& **"PROPANE NIGHTMARES" **by **PENDULUM**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to Apurva and Lou.

7


	15. Cenizas de Rosas

_**Heated emotions on a hot night in Buenos Aires…**_

**15. Cenizas de Rosas**

Their first stop was an achingly hip bar in Palermo Viejo, a historic _barrio_ with a bohemian vibe that was thronged with late night revelers.

The bar was gleaming white throughout with vast, ornate wrought iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling; it was heaving with excitable, smartly dressed young Muggles.

Hermione felt comparatively old and even a little ashamed of her diaphanous, dusky pink dress. She folded her arms tightly across her chest to deter onlookers; her excitement for the evening was evaporating fast.

'What are you drinking?' Draco said.

Hermione pulled a face. 'I don't mind. I'm not really in a drinking mood to be honest.'

Draco signaled his order to Miguel and then guided Hermione to a bank of seats, far from the scrummage of laughter and flirtation at the bar.

She soon wondered why he'd bothered, because he showed zero interest in speaking to her and had barely even looked at her since leaving the hotel.

Yet another of his frustrating mood-swings…

She could see his flint grey eyes, constantly scanning the room, appraising each woman who passed by with cold, clinical candour.

'You'd have more luck if you weren't sitting with me,' Hermione said sardonically, raising her voice above the clamorous din of chatter and thumping electronica lounge pop.

'What was that?'

'You'd have more luck if… oh, forget it,' Hermione said. There was no point competing with the noise in this place.

She was thankful to see Miguel approaching with an iced pitcher of mojito cocktail and whisky chasers for himself and Draco.

'I planned to meet some friends here, but they've already moved on,' Miguel said. 'We can catch up, but we need to drink this fast.'

'Suits me,' Draco grunted, pouring himself a large drink.

Miguel lit himself a cigarette, poured a mojito for Hermione, and proceeded to ply her with inane conversation: light, frothy, aimless chitchat, chiefly focusing on his plans for a new car – he couldn't decide between an Aston Martin or a Porsche. He'd also bought a boat where he planned to spend tomorrow – a day off work – relaxing.

In turn, Hermione told him about Rose and Hugo, and how Ron was a _police_ detective, emphasising the Muggle terminology.

But she was distracted throughout, sensing Draco's deepening morosity, a looming dark presence which seemed to worsen the more he drank.

She wondered if his pain had returned.

Miguel was remarkably unfazed, giving Draco a wide berth as though he was an injured animal who needed to lick his wounds in private.

'Let's go dancing!' Miguel said excitedly, clapping his hands in glee.

'I think I'll head off,' Hermione said.

'I'll take you back, if you like,' Draco said grumpily.

'NO! You are a _mad_ man! I am meeting a very nice lady-friend…' Miguel exclaimed, seemingly panicked by the potential loss of Draco's company.

'Senora Weasley!' Miguel pleaded, a desperate gleam in his eye. Hermione couldn't help but smile. She'd asked him repeatedly to call her Hermione, but he was unable to master it. 'Let me tempt _you_! Villa Ofelia is five minutes walk from this place. Come for just one drink, two drinks… nothing more.'

XXX

Hermione soon discovered the mojitos, which had slipped down a little too easily, were mighty strong, as she was a little giddy and pink-cheeked; a combination of the alcohol and the relentless warmth, she guessed, even though it was past midnight. She found she was tottering a little in her high-heeled sandals and grateful to have Miguel's arm to lean on.

Draco marched rapidly into the distance, his tall, dark figure crowned by his fiercely blond hair serving as a beacon to guide them.

'Not a happy man,' Miguel said, in hushed tones, once Draco was out of earshot. 'The fault of that wife of his. You know Katya?'

'Not really,' Hermione said tentatively. 'Have _you_ met her?'

'Twice.' Miguel heaved a melancholic sigh. 'Very sweet. _Muy tolerante_.'

'Well, I guess she'd have to be, living with Malfoy!' Hermione joked, although judging from Miguel's puzzled expression, her quip had fallen a little flat.

'There was much love, but much sadness, too. That last year, before she was gone… _muchas problemas_. Money, the child, and Draco's little problem with the _policia_…'

'When you say 'child', you mean _Scorpius_?' Hermione asked, burning with curiosity.

'Oh, yes… the boy refuses to talk…'

'How sad,' Hermione murmured.

'And Draco hated Katya's family always living in his house… But he needs the money, no?'

'From Katya's father? Ephraim Golowitz?'

'But of course.'

'Malfoy doesn't need money, Miguel! Herb Healing's a very successful company.'

'For sure! But it's not Draco's. His father is a nominal _Presidente_, but is a very sick man. Alzheimer's.'

'Alzheimer's? Are you sure?' Hermione asked, incredulous. Alzheimer's rarely affected wizards. It had to be a cover story for something else.

'So the _true_ owner of Herb Healing is Ephraim Golowitz. He owns Draco and his family - even his home - lock, stock and barrel.'

They had now approached a rambling old house, built in the colonial style, set in a lush garden, with tables and chairs and an open-air bar. There were white fairy lights and lanterns strung between the tall trees and bushes which encircled the garden. A Latino jazz band was playing on a raised stage underneath a vast awning, while a further light-set was aimed at an astro-turf dance floor situated between the stage and the bar.

Draco was waiting for them at the entrance. 'Hurry up. I'm dying for a drink,' he carped, an impatient scowl on his face.

Two large bouncers were eyeing him suspiciously, which was hardly surprising, Hermione thought, recalling the amount of wine and whisky he had downed during the day. There was something a little wild-eyed about him already.

XXX

The clientele at 'Villa Ofelia' were much more varied than the cooler cocktail bar in the heart of Palermo Viejo. Here, there was a combination of hip young things who were warming up for a long night's clubbing and a slightly older, well-heeled set.

Miguel nabbed a table situated close to the bar and dance floor, facing away from the band.

'Ah! My friend Rosario!' He beamed at Draco. 'And she has a friend with her. _Una guapa_!'

Two young women were hot-footing it to their table, wreathed in smiles and kisses for Miguel.

Rosario was a petite redhead with a squealing laugh. Her friend, Estrella, was tall and lithe-looking with deeply tanned skin and long blonde hair tightly scraped back from her face with a silver comb. She was clad in skin-tight black leather and teetered perilously on red patent stilettos. Hermione half-expected her to be wielding a whip and sporting pink fluffy handcuffs.

She was also destined to be 'Draco's date' from the look of things. Notably, Draco's blank, unashamedly bored expression, never altered. The girls didn't speak English but giggled profusely to compensate. They barely acknowledged Hermione's presence.

Draco went to the bar and returned with bottles of beer and yet another jug of mojito. Hermione promised herself that two mojitos would be her absolute limit; they had to see Senor Canaro first thing, and she had to Portkey home.

The band had upped its tempo and wheeled a set of bongo drums onto the stage. Salsa seemed to be the new groove. A number of couples sashayed enthusiastically onto the dance floor.

'Would you do me the honour, Senora Weasley?' Miguel exclaimed, leaping to his feet with surprising alacrity, hand extended.

'I don't dance'.

'No matter,' Miguel pouted. 'You can stamp on my feet all you like. How's that?'

XXX

Naturally, Miguel was a very fine dancer. Hermione wasn't accustomed to being swung about on a dance floor in such a practiced manner and was soon gasping for breath.

The next number was slow. Hermione instinctively made a move back towards their table, but Miguel grabbed her arm, spinning her close with one sweeping movement, and pulled her flush against his body.

'I'm danced out,' Hermione said in vexed tones, swivelling away from him. She glanced over at Draco, who was being bombarded with drinks and attention by Rosario and Estrella.

'May I say, Senora Weasley, you look particularly ravishing tonight,' Miguel sighed melodramatically, his eyes twinkling saucily.

'Flattery will get you nowhere, Senor Culebra.'

'How about a drink, instead?' he said, looking suddenly like a glum little boy who'd been told off for playing rough.

XXX

Hermione hoisted herself onto a high barstool while she waited for the barman to make her mojito, drumming her nails impatiently on the bar.

She noticed that Estrella and Rosario were now seated alone at their table, working their way through the jug of cocktail. Draco was nowhere to be seen.

Her mojito arrived. It was cool and limey, possibly a little over-stuffed with mint leaves, and very alcoholic.

'You like?' Miguel asked. He sipped a gin martini, gagging a little as he did.

'Too strong?'

Miguel pushed it towards her. She vehemently shook her head.

'Just try it,' he urged.

'Really. No,' she said adamantly. She could see that Draco had returned to the table. He radiated _depression_… yes, that was the word for it, she thought. It was hardly surprising, when she thought about it. His entire life was in hock to this Golowitz man, who she wasn't sure he much liked, his wife and child had vanished, Scorpius was voluntarily mute, and his father was incapacitated.

The lithe blonde _leech_, as Hermione privately nicknamed Estrella, had definitely decided to make a play for him. She sprawled against him, simpering and giggling. Draco seemed remarkably unperturbed by her attentions, stolidly drinking his beer instead.

'Draco has made a conquest… A good thing, no?' Miguel chortled.

'He's still married,' Hermione said primly.

'His wife is missing a long time, and Draco has many enemies. I suspect she's been abducted and killed.'

His blasé manner distressed Hermione more than she could have ever imagined.

'Don't be so quick to consign her to the graveyard,' Hermione said archly, thinking of the silver roses _someone_ was still sending Draco.

'But everything points to it. She goes on a shopping trip to London – as you ladies love to do -'

Hermione had never really enjoyed shopping for the sake of it, but there was no point arguing at this juncture.

'– and never returns. Not even a ransom note. _Nada._ Zilch. Most strange, no?'

'Yes, it is,' Hermione agreed, thinking that if Katya's last shopping trip was to Diagon Alley, surely someone had spotted her?

'Ah, Rosario is trying to persuade Draco to dance…' Miguel said in jocular tones.

Sure enough, the music had changed. The band had stopped, and instead of Latino dance music, there was a slower, soaring female vocal and a languorous, sexy backbeat.

Rosario was dragging Draco towards the dance-floor in a determined fashion.

Draco now spotted Miguel and Hermione by the bar. He violently shook off Rosario, a furious look scuttling across his face.

Rosario approached Miguel in quiet desperation.

'I think a little friendly intervention is needed,' Hermione said under her breath.

Looking a little disgruntled, Miguel expertly drained his gin martini and scooped Rosario into his arms, whizzing her onto the dance floor.

This left Hermione facing a decidedly unhappy Draco Malfoy who was staring intently at her, a savage - yet lost - look in his eyes that rather frightened her.

The mojitos coursing through her veins had made her bold.

'Cheer up, Malfoy. You've got a face like a wet weekend,' she laughed.

'Don't pretend you care, Hermione,' he replied, lip curled peevishly, instantly reminding her of her teenage tormentor.

Instead of feeling a surge of revulsion, she felt strangely fond of him. Maybe it was the shock of the familiar amongst all the dark chaos of the unknown they had experienced these last couple of days together? A reminder of their personal inter-connectedness over twenty years, the long mutual history of hatred and antipathy that had raged through their lives like an infernal Greek Chorus...

'Merlin, Malfoy!' Hermione said, exasperated. 'I was trying to be nice.'

She looked past him towards the dancers, throbbing on the dance floor, illuminated by a bubbling string of strobe lights weaving its way through the crowd. She thrilled to the vibrant sway of the music.

'Do you want to dance?' she asked, before she'd had time to stop herself.

He instantly stepped forwards and enveloped her in his arms, hoisting her off the bar stool and pulling her close.

They stumbled backwards towards the dance floor.

It scared her how well their bodies moulded together. How comforting she found the soft warmth of his cheek against hers.

Even scarier was how she luxuriated in the feel of his hands, warm and firm, sliding against the sheer, silky fabric of her dress.

He pulled her still closer, so close she could feel the heat of him burning into her.

This was probably the wrong dance, she thought blissfully. It felt far too intimate. She sighed into his skin, surrendering to the exhilarating pulse of the music pounding through them, urging her to writhe rhythmically against him.

One of his hands drifted lower from its holding position just below her waist, his fingers softly skirting the top of her buttocks. Then, ever so slowly, his hand trailed upwards, tracing the length of her torso, dancing over her ribs, his fingers lightly grazing the side of her breast before his hand came to rest, flat on her back.

She was sharply aware that her body was responding to his touch, that her nipples had hardened painfully.

'What you do that for?' she breathed.

'Do what?' he murmured, sliding his hand down to the small of her back in a single sweeping motion. He turned his face to look at her, his eyes glowing silver. His breath was hotly alcoholic on her mouth.

She had to fight back a sudden, unexpected urge to grind against him, to slide her lips across his, so she snaked her arms around his neck instead, burying her face in his shoulder, dissolving into his warmth, relishing his scent. Her heart was galloping wildly inside of her, thrillingly alive to the feel of his obvious arousal pressed hard against her body, his harsh, ragged breathing smothered into her hair, and the soft, ceaseless stroking motion of his fingers on her lower back close to her buttocks.

She was drowning in the feeling of it all. Her heart was beating so fast she feared she might be sick.

This is too much, she thought, a rising panic beginning to take hold of her.

The music had also changed from a sensual sighing beat to a heavy, growling rhythmic thump. Couples were rapidly pulling apart, and the swooping, single string of bubble-lights weaving its way amongst the dancers had been supplanted by a medley of quickfire strobes chasing each other maniacally without purpose, drenching the dancers in a flood of hot, bright white.

Hermione clawed herself away from Draco's grasp, instantly missing his solid warmth, but trembling too at the stinging realisation that things had very nearly spiralled out of control. That, yet again, they had been _horribly inappropriate_. Much like they had been this morning, squashed together in the beige mini.

'You can't just… just grope me whenever you want,' she stuttered.

Draco stared at her, gob-smacked. 'What did you say?'

'You heard me. We can't do this… '

'Do what?'

'THIS!' she shouted, red in the face. 'You know exactly what I mean! Don't pretend otherwise.'

Draco shook his head, seemingly stunned and confused.

'You're drunk, Malfoy,' she said dismissively. 'If it's a quick feel you want, I'm sure there's plenty of girls here ready and willing to oblige!'

Hermione spun on her heel and marched purposefully towards the table where their half-finished jug of mojito was looking sadly lonesome.

She could sense he was following her.

She smoothed her hands over her dusky rose dress, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of his hands on her body, and sat down, unsteadily pouring herself a fresh glass of mojito.

'I'm surprised at you,' she said, trying to sound more in control than she actually felt, even though she was struggling to breath normally. 'I thought you'd be fully focused on pulling one of those tarty girls Miguel's hooked you up with, rather than wasting time with me.'

'Hermione… have you lost your mind? YOU asked ME to dance!'

'I didn't expect you to be so… enthusiastic…'

Draco slowly sat down on the chair next to hers, shaking his head in disbelief.

'You wanted me to refuse?'

'No. That's not it at all,' Hermione said, suddenly aware that her head was throbbing, flooded with a swirling, vivid mess of colour.

She cast her eyes around the garden, crammed with revelers, surrounded by tall dark trees shuddering gently in a warm, summer breeze… avoiding Draco's gaze.

How could she possibly say what she really meant - that she'd never expected _him_… _them_ to be so darned attracted to each other – without then making it _real_?

She found herself staring at his silver rose pendant, which was nestling innocently against his chest.

'I can't believe I ever felt sorry for you,' she said bitterly. 'Everything you told me about Katya, the _way_ you talked about her… it was bullshit, wasn't it?'

He paled. 'What the fuck are you talking about?'

'You're still married, and yet you've eyed up just about every woman who's crossed our path tonight.'

'Oh yeah? And what about you? Ron's stuck at home with a bad back, and you're swanning about in a fucking see-through dress!' Draco groused, fiddling with the damp label on his chilled beer bottle which was streaked with condensation.

'Your concern for my husband's best interests, Draco, is very touching!' Hermione said sarcastically. 'But how can YOU complain about my dress, when you're the one who bought me the bloody thing in the first place?'

'I didn't think it would look like THAT.'

'Like what?' Hermione asked, mortified by his sneering tone.

'You might as well be naked.'

There was a part of Hermione that was seriously frightened by what he said, which was why her cheeks were smarting with shame. She _had_ betrayed Ron tonight; it was true. She had wanted to look desirable… to be desired.

She glanced at Miguel, who was now standing with Rosario at the bar, watching them intently. Estrella, the lithe blonde leech in skin-tight leather had joined them and winked at Draco, who continued to mush the label on his beer-bottle in silence.

'Anyway, YOU'RE the one who's pulled,' Hermione said snidely. 'If you fancy meaningless sex with a woman who looks like a plastic blow-up doll, then this is your lucky night.'

Draco's face had darkened.

Hermione couldn't resist goading him.

'I mean, she couldn't look less like Katya, could she? Katya had a much more_ natural_ look.'

Draco seemed to flinch at these words. His sudden movement frightened her. For one brief moment, she seriously thought he might strike her.

'Why are you doing this?' Draco said, his voice laced with menace. 'You're making a fool of yourself.'

'What do you mean?'

'You know _exactly_ what I mean.' He was now staring at her, his eyes ink-black and hollow. 'You're punishing ME for something YOU feel.'

'I don't understand,' Hermione stammered, 'just because I happen to have some empathy for your poor wife…'

'Don't pretend you care two hoots about Katya. You didn't even know her name until I told you the other night. And then you couldn't wait to get away. You couldn't give a shit that I told you stuff about her, stuff I haven't mentioned to anybody else.'

'I felt awkward… she was _pregnant_. I didn't expect that.'

Draco's eyes were glassy and cold. The bright white fairy lights dangling in the trees were reflected in his gaze.

'No, Hermione. You were embarrassed because you thought she was dead, and you still do. Knowing your real opinion of me, you probably assume I murdered her.'

'I don't think anything of the sort!' Hermione seethed, suddenly consumed by white-hot rage. 'The thing is… crazy as it sounds, I felt a connection with her. A similarity.'

'A 'connection'? I very much doubt she'd even like you. As for similarity…'

'Look, just forget I ever said it!' Hermione stood up, suddenly wanting to get as far away from Draco as she possibly could.

'No, let's talk about this,' Draco said, grabbing her arm and roughly pushing her back into her seat. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinising her carefully.

'Okay. Let's see… Sure. There's maybe a few similarities with Katya … across the eyes, and… the way her lips tapered slightly upwards when she smiled. And yes, you're completely, fucking, insanely beautiful.'

Hermione tried to extricate her arm from his grasp, but he pulled his chair closer to hers with one quick movement and pressed one large hand flat against her back, his other hand pinioning her arm to the table. He thrust his face close to hers, so close she could feel his spittle spraying her cheeks and mouth as he talked.

'But Katya was _nice_. Whereas you… you have such a repellent personality.'

'Look who's talking!' Hermione fumed.

But Draco didn't seem to hear her. 'You're arrogant, bossy, self-seeking, over-competitive, you don't seem to give a stuff about your children - or your husband, come to that - you're obsessed with your work and all the fucking wondrous good you do, saving poor Muggleborns everywhere...'

'Which is precisely why I'm_ here _at the other side of the bloody world helping you!'

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but seemed to reconsider.

'Really, how _you, _of all people, can sit there, so smug and self-righteous, and say all that to me… it beggars belief…' Hermione continued, grappling for her handbag. 'After tomorrow morning, I _never, ever_ want to see you again. You can do what the hell you want with Ron, I really couldn't care less… I won't be part of it. In fact… in fact, I won't even be around.'

She wanted his hand off her arm. She could feel his hand on her back, a deadweight, scorching hot through the thin fabric of her dress. She needed to escape this invasion of her personal space, to slap away his eyes and mouth. She was seized by a fierce temptation to head-butt him with such violence, such force, that his nose and lip would split, spewing blood, and was then shocked by the intense feeling of sexual excitement, this momentary fantasy inspired in her. She found she was grinding her teeth and shaking uncontrollably, a tight heat clenched deep inside of her.

This kind of physical, visceral hatred couldn't be healthy, she thought to herself, taking deep breaths to calm herself down.

'And now,' Hermione said in a shaky voice, 'I'd like to get a cab back to the hotel.'

Draco refused to budge, a sullen, sneering expression on his face.

'DRACO. I said I want to leave,' Hermione said in louder, firmer tones.

'I heard you.'

For a brief moment, he seemed to struggle inwardly, as though he was about to say something, and then thought better of it.

'I can't let you go back on your own,' he said, tightening his grip on her.

'Well, I don't want _you_ anywhere near me,' she hissed, tears pricking her eyelids. 'I'd rather take my chances with Los Rojos.'

'But they could hurt you.'

'I don't care. All I know is I can't stand the sight of you for one minute longer.' She was quivering with pent-up rage and a desire to sob uncontrollably.

'Hermione… '

'Get your hands off me,' Hermione snarled, pushing Draco in the face.

'Hey! What's going on?' Miguel bellowed excitedly, forcing himself between them.

'I'm going back to the hotel,' Hermione said to Miguel, her eyes blazing with anger.

'And I'm going with her,' Draco said.

Hermione saw there was undeniable pain in his eyes, and for a moment she felt bad. And then she remembered who she was dealing with.

Miguel looked alarmed. 'Hermione… my driver can take you back to the hotel, look…' he pulled out his mobile phone, waggling it frenetically in the air. 'I can call him straight away. He's waiting round the corner.' He then turned to Draco. 'Come on, old friend… cheer up… the night is still young…' he nodded lecherously towards Rosario and Estrella, who were watching this little scene with open-mouthed fascination.

'Thanks for everything, Miguel,' Hermione said flatly. 'I'll wait outside.'

'Let me at least wait with you,' Draco said, jumping to his feet.

'You don't need to do that.'

Hermione slipped out of her seat and headed towards the exit, quickly weaving her way through a cluster of drinkers and dancers. Draco was close behind.

He grabbed her arm in an effort to detain her.

'For fuck's sake, Hermione! I'm sorry, okay?'

She roughly shrugged him off, not daring to look him in the face.

She could hear Miguel scampering after them.

Miguel placed a firm, proprietorial arm around her, swiftly leading her away from Draco. He was already barking orders into his mobile phone and by the time they had arrived at the exit gate, the chauffeur-driven car was waiting for them.

A burgundy-uniformed chauffeur with the Astrum logo imprinted on his jacket pocket hastened to open the door for Hermione.

'It's been nice to meet you, Miguel,' Hermione said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. 'Take care.'

'And you, too,' Miguel said, a forlorn, anxious look on his face.

XXX

Even with the air-conditioning blaring at full pelt in her hotel room it was a boiling hot night. Hermione stripped off her dusky pink shift, and collapsed onto her bed, not even bothering to untuck the bedcovers. She lay there, mentally pleading for the occasional eddy of cool air from the aircon unit to sweep across her skin.

She took deep breaths, trying to refresh herself in this overheated, airless atmosphere, still feeling over-wrought from her argument with Draco. It vaguely occurred to her that she should take a shower or at least remove her makeup. But the bathroom seemed very far away, and the sluggishness oozing through her body soon meant she didn't even have the energy to reach over to the lamp on her bedside table to switch it off.

She ran through the evening's events in her mind, over and over, each time feeling increasingly sickened by her own behaviour – in every department.

She suddenly felt nauseous. Her head was spinning. It was so hot and stuffy in this room… How she longed for the cool comfort of her journey in the Astrum limousine. The windows had been down, a keen breeze slicing across her face and pleasantly ruffling her hair as they hurtled through the bustling city, which seemed as alive at night as it did during the day.

The chauffeur had been pleasant, smiling at her benignly in the mirror, his cap, offset at a jaunty angle, subverting his officious image.

She started to drift off to sleep… there was something about that cap… that uniform…. Something niggling her mind… A vague memory - more a splodge, really - a splash of colour, a shape… the logo for Astrum.

A star. A red star. Yes, the logo for Astrum was a Red Star.

Where do I know that from? she wondered idly, exhaustion easing through her body, gradually shutting down her consciousness.

She hoped Draco was alright. That he'd forgive her… The image of his face, his pained look, hovered in her mind's eye, then faded, as sleep overwhelmed her.

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: **"YOU DON'T HAVE A CLUE" **by **ROYKSOPP**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to Apurva & Lou.

7


	16. What Dreams May Come

_**A dead body, a mysterious, cryptic message, and Draco's losing his mind. A fraught and frightening night takes a surprising turn for Hermione and Draco… will things ever be the same again?**_

**16. What Dreams May Come**

Hermione had no idea how long she'd been asleep, but her name was being called and someone was roughly shaking her.

She felt heady, heavy-limbed. Unable to stir or speak.

She had to be dreaming.

Again, someone was calling her name. Over and over. With increasing urgency.

She could feel the mattress dip in response to somebody's weight… somebody who had joined her on the bed.

Maybe this wasn't a dream, after all.

'Hermione, wake up!' The voice was clearer now, projected directly into her ear. She could feel large hands – one behind her neck, the other cradling her chin - gently moving her head from side to side.

There was a warmth against the length of her body, the feel of heated skin on skin.

'Can you hear me?'

It was Draco's voice.

Relief flooded through her.

She'd had such a disturbing dream… one where she'd left Draco in great danger.

'Hermione!' Draco shouted.

Hermione woke with a start, her heart pumping violently as a surge of adrenalin coursed through her. Draco was hanging over her, chest heaving, panting loudly.

'What the hell are you doing? Oh my god, Draco! What's happened to you?' she cried, recoiling at the sight of him.

Draco was shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. He was half-naked, his jeans slung low on his hips and unbuttoned at the fly. His back and chest were covered in deep scratches, and his bullet-wound was bleeding profusely.

Hermione followed his shiny-eyed gaze to her own body. Her bare breasts and belly were thinly smeared in his blood where he had inadvertently touched her whilst waking her.

Horrified, she grabbed a pillow to shield her body as best she could, and shuffled into a kneeling position.

'What is it?' she asked again, trying to still the panic in her voice.

'I thought you might be dead!' he explained, burying his face in his hands.

'Dead? Why would I be dead?

Draco took deep breaths, and swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Hermione's gaze. The grey irises of his eyes had been entirely swamped by the deep black of his pupils, and there was a slight slurring in his speech.

'I don't how to tell you this.'

Suddenly, her chest felt tight, fearful of what he might say. There was something terribly 'off' about him…

'There's – there's a _dead girl_ in my bed.'

'A WHAT?'

'A dead girl,' Draco repeated forlornly.

Hermione sprung off the bed and scrabbled urgently on the floor for the dusky pink shift she'd discarded last night. She wriggled the dress over her head, not caring that the pillow she was hiding behind, fell to the floor as she got dressed.

She had to do something, get help…

'Tell me truthfully Draco,' she said. Her mouth felt dry and she was struggling to swallow. She couldn't stop imagining some kind of gruesome Muggle-torturing sex play that had got out of hand. 'Have you killed someone?'

'No… NO! It's not like that… I didn't _do_ _anything_!' Draco remonstrated, his voice rising to a hysterical pitch. 'I just found her there, lying beside me_…'_

'Who is she?'

'Rosario.From last night?'

'What the bloody hell was she doing in your bed? No, sorry… don't answer that…' Hermione said with a frown.

'I honestly don't remember how it happened,' Draco said earnestly. He closed his eyes, grimacing, as a spasm of pain rocked him. 'My head's pounding. Feels like it might blow off.'

Hermione picked up the receiver of the phone next to her bed and tried to dial 'Reception' with shaking fingers.

'What are you doing?' Draco squealed in alarm. 'Don't drag the Muggles into this!'

Hermione fixed him a steely look and continued dialing.

'They'll think I've fucking killed her!' Draco growled, teeth bared. He flung himself at her and wrestled the receiver from her grasp, slamming it back into its cradle.

'We have to report this, Draco! This is what you do in the Muggle world, or don't you realise that?' Hermione said, feeling a little frightened by his strength and the ease with which he'd overpowered her.

'But I haven't done anything wrong! Not deliberately.'

'How can you be so sure?' Hermione snapped, unable to suppress the feeling of spiteful fury that rose up inside of her.

'Please, Hermione. Please help me…' Draco said in softer, beseeching tones. He gripped her hand, clutching it tightly in his own, and tugged her away from the phone and towards him. His hand was hot and clammy. 'You've got to come and see… She's turned blue …'

'BLUE?'

'_Dark Flux_ blue…'

XXX

'Hold on… how the hell did you get into my room?' Hermione asked, as they hastened towards Draco's room at the far end of the corridor.

'I don't know.'

'You didn't _consciously_ cast a spell?'

'It all happened so fast.'

Draco pulled his key-card from his jeans pocket and slipped it into the required slot on his door. He paused; taking a deep breath, preparing to face whatever was waiting for him inside.

'Why weren't you sick?'

'Why wasn't I… What? What the fucking hell are you on about?' Draco said impatiently, as he inched the door open.

XXX

Hermione cast a Colloportuson the door behind them, and a standard intruder spell, ensuring an alarm would sound if anyone – or anything – tried to enter.

The room was in complete disarray. Furniture was overturned. A bottle of champagne was lying on its side on the antique table and had dripped its contents onto the matching Louis XVI chair. Clothes were heaped shambolically or were hanging from various parts of the room where they had been flung, including a scarlet satin bra, which was dangling from the overhead light-shade.

'She's gone!' Draco cried. He stumbled backwards, collapsing heavily onto the wet Louis XVI chair, looking pale and shaky, his eyes huge and wild.

Hermione studied the bed. There was a pile of heaped up bedclothes, and a bloody stain on the under sheet – but definitely no body.

'Then she can't have been dead.'

'Or somebody's moved her body.'

Hermione quickly cast a Homenum Revelio, followed by a Homorphous Charm, just to check that there wasn't anybody still lurking.

Draco was shaking his head in disbelief. He half up-ended the champagne bottle; then, noticing there were still some dregs in the bottom, he glugged the liquid down before throwing the bottle to the ground.

'I don't get it, Hermione. I swear to you. She was lying there, dead and cold.'

'And you're sure this wasn't some kind of hallucination?' Hermione asked in a crisp, clear voice, desperately trying to maintain an outward veneer of calm.

'She was blue… electric blue,' Draco said in halting tones, 'like… like that Ana girl,' he added, his lip curled in revulsion, 'and she had those horrible purple welts.' He threw a pleading look at Hermione. 'You do believe she was here, don't you? I'm not going mad…'

Hermione glanced upwards. 'Well, there has to be an explanation for that bra hanging up there. So yes, I believe you.'

'Good… because… oh hell… I feel very strange…' Draco mumbled incoherently, falling forwards, almost tumbling off the chair. Hermione lunged towards him, hauling him upright.

He looked terrible, she thought. She wondered if she should call a doctor. He was wheezing and there was a greyish tinge to his lips.

'Look at me,' Hermione said, tilting his head backwards so that she could examine his eyes, which had suddenly glazed over, his pupils swirling.

'Did you eat or drink anything unusual tonight?'

He shook his head. 'Just booze and...Turkish light…' He thought a moment, brow furrowed in an effort of stern concentration. 'Turkish _de_-light.'

'Right, where was that?'

'Boat… Miguel's boat.'

Miguel's boat, she thought glumly. Miguel who worked for Astrum, a.k.a. Red Star. Her memories of the chauffeur with the 'Red Star' Astrum logo on his uniform came flooding back.

Surely Miguel wasn't involved in this? He was Draco's friend…

Even so, her suspicion that Draco was suffering from the after-effects of a powerful hex or potion was hardening by the moment. His condition was fast deteriorating.

'I think you've been cursed, Draco,' she said. He blinked repeatedly, seeming dazzled. 'Hold still,' she cried, wand aloft. She focused her magical energies on a Finite Incantatem, adding in a few flourishes of her own that she hoped might help to rejuvenate him.

'Any better?'

Draco's grey pallor had mutated to a ghastly green. His skin was moist with perspiration.

'Oh fuck, I'm going to be sick,' he gagged. He brusquely elbowed Hermione aside and sprinted into the bathroom.

Hermione stood alone in the middle of his destroyed bedroom, listening to him emptying the contents of his stomach; gut-churning wave after wave of loud, honking vomit.

She closed her eyes tightly, shutting out the sound. Felt the darkness with her mind… had Los Rojos been here, in this room, tonight?

As if from nowhere, there it was… at the edges of her vision. A tail end. A tiny flash of colour. A flash of red.

Her reverie was interrupted by the abrupt flush of the toilet, followed by Draco's voice calling her name. He sounded panicked.

She dashed into the bathroom where Draco was struggling to stand. He staggered, smashing sideways into the wall. Hermione hooked her arm around him.

'Sorry,' he croaked. His voice was gravelly from vomiting.

'You'll feel better soon,' Hermione said in comforting tones. Her eyes dropped to his bloodied chest and the gaping shoulder wound. It looked worse than ever. 'You could do with a shower.'

He immediately began sliding his jeans off his hips. Hermione averted her eyes, leaping away from him to the doorway. She gazed instead at the chaotic bedroom. What the hell had happened here? The place had been utterly wrecked. Had there been a fight?

Draco pitched into the shower cubicle behind her. The cubicle door clanked shut, followed by a loud burst of shower water.

'Chuck me my tooth stuff, will you?' he called, opening the shower door a notch and slinking out a wet hand. She grabbed a tooth-mug holding a toothbrush and paste and thrust it at him.

In that exact same moment, she caught sight of a large-lettered message, daubed in what looked like blood, on the vanity mirror above the sink.

'**For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come.'**

Swathes of condensation on the mirror were slowly erasing the message, which was dripping down the mirror in long, thin red rivulets, before pooling on the white ceramic sink unit below.

She stared at the mirror, frozen to the spot. Her heart was thumping maniacally in her chest, her mind racing. She shivered, rubbing her arms in response to an outbreak of goose bumps.

'Draco? Can you hear me?' she yelled, raising her voice to be heard over the roar of the shower.

'Yeah!' he shouted back, his voice slightly muffled by the water.

'There's – there's a message on the mirror,' she stammered. 'I - I think it's Shakespeare.'

'Shakespeare? What the…?' The water instantly cranked off. 'I need a towel,' Draco said in truculent tones. The shower door swung open. Hermione instinctively screwed her eyes shut and shoved a towel in his direction.

She could hear him vigorously drying himself. 'You can open your prudish little eyes now,' he drawled.

He'd wrapped the large white towel around his waist and roughly dried his hair into a spiked frenzy.

He was staring at the mirror, open-jawed. 'It's not something _I_ did, if that's what you're thinking,' he said.

'No… this is a message from Los Rojos,' Hermione said dazedly. 'I've had that 'Red' feeling again.'

Draco gave her a sharp look then peered closely at the dripping message on the mirror. 'Is this blood?' he asked, sneering in disgust.

'I doubt it,' Hermione said, dipping a fingertip into the bloody mixture pooling on the sink. She sniffed it.

'What the hell are you doing?' Draco yelped. 'Are you mad?' He forced her hand under the tap, and then twisted the water tap on at full pelt so that all traces of blood were washed away. 'It could be diseased or something.'

'It's paint,' she said flatly, snatching her hand from Draco's clasp.

'_For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come_,' Draco read. 'What does it mean?'

'Isn't it obvious?' she scoffed. She was raging inside, suddenly furious that Draco had got himself – got them BOTH – into such a bloody stupid mess.

'No, Hermione, it's not obvious,' he retorted, clearly picking up on her tone.

'DREAMS, Draco, it says DREAMS… you were enchanted so that your dreams felt real…'

'It _was_ real.'

'No, it wasn't. You thought Rosario was dead from Dark Flux, remember? And then you thought I was dead too? It doesn't make sense, does it now?'

'Everything was woozy… like my head was going to explode.'

'Exactly. You'd been enchanted.'

'But she was here. Rosario was here,' Draco said firmly.

Yes, there was no denying that, Hermione thought sourly, grimacing at the mess of scratch marks on Draco's chest.

Her eye alighted on Katya's silver pendant hanging around his neck. Draco looked a little uncomfortable under her keen-eyed scrutiny. He lightly traced one of the scratches with his finger.

'She was a little over-enthusiastic.'

'Please. Spare me the details,' Hermione said, tight-lipped.

'Not that much to say anyway,' he muttered. 'All a bit of a disaster actually…'

Hermione studiously ignored Draco, returning her attention to the mirror. '_For in that sleep of death_…' she said pensively, 'it might mean a Draught of Living Death?'

'To make her _look_ dead?' Draco raised his eyebrows quizzically. 'That's just weird!'

'It's all bloody weird,' Hermione said, surprised at how angry she felt. 'For some reason, they really wanted to freak you out!' She vanished the strange, Shakespearean message on the mirror with a quick flick of her wand.

It was better to do something… get active. Somehow exorcise this bottled-up emotion welling up inside of her.

Returning to the bedroom, she busily embarked on a series of tidying spells, including a few very necessary Reparos. She couldn't possibly let the chambermaids see Draco's room in this state. They'd get the police onto him.

'So have we concluded that Rosario definitely isn't dead?' Draco said, following her into the bedroom. He leaned wearily against the bedroom wall. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and screwed his eyes tightly shut, tottering a little. 'Because thinking THAT is the only thing keeping me sane.'

'Paint on the mirror…. a cryptic message…. and a disappearing corpse. Not to mention you scared out of your bloody wits and having hallucinations!' Hermione started on the arduous job of scourgifying his bedclothes. 'What do _you_ think?'

Draco shook his head. 'But it seemed so real.' He chewed his nails nervously. 'I can't think how somebody got that close to cast a Confundus Charm, or whatever the hell it was that addled my brain like that.'

'Maybe Rosario was a witch?'

'No way,' Draco said. He was pulling his jeans back on underneath his voluminous towel, and was focusing on re-buttoning his fly, before letting the towel fall to the floor.

'How would you know?'

Draco laughed, a low, insidious laugh. 'I know, believe me.'

Hermione halted her cleaning spree and stood gaping at him, hands on hips, head held high, challenging him.

'Let me guess... you think Muggles and witches are different in bed?' she said, bristling with indignation.

'Funny you should say that. There _is_ something.'

'That's _disgusting_... I don't want to know.'

'... Something I can't quite put my finger on...'

Hermione was frenziedly persisting with her cleaning spells, her wand fizzing with exertion.

'I'm not listening.'

Draco approached the bed, catching hold of one end of the bedcover Hermione was now grappling with, to assist her, as she attempted to scourgify another bloodstain out of existence.

'I like Muggles. They're more… _there_. More in the moment,' he smirked, clearly enjoying Hermione's discomfiture. 'Witches are more _melodramatic_.'

'That's utter rubbish,' Hermione snarled, turning her back on him. 'You should meet my Aunty Rita,' she added, under her breath.

She stood on tiptoe, hooking the end of her wand into Rosario's bra and releasing it from the light-shade. She glanced quickly at Draco, acutely aware that he was watching her intently, a rapt look on his face.

'Curiously, I've never shagged a Muggleborn witch,' he mused, sitting down heavily on the bed.

Hermione continued to feel his eyes lingering over her, as she moved briskly around the room, up ending overturned furniture, straightening ornaments. 'They know to avoid you,' she sniped, prickling with an odd consciousness. 'Anyway, if you like Muggle women as much as you claim to Draco, how come you only married witches?' She flashed him a sickly smile, which she hoped would defuse the weighty feeling building inside of her.

'I think your 'liking' Muggle women is a sham, Draco Malfoy. It's the worst kind of 'racism' there is, because it treats Muggle women like disposable whores.' She paused, brandishing her wand for dramatic effect as she spoke. 'I mean… really… compared to all those lovely pureblood and half-blood witches, do I – a measly _Muggleborn_ - LOOK that different? Do I SMELL different? Or TASTE different?'

Draco lay back on the bed, hands folded beneath his head, continuing to stare at her. He was biting his lip as though trying to stop himself from saying something he might regret.

She approached him, her eyes firmly trained on his face.

'I doubt you've spent more than three hours alone, if that, in the company of a Muggle woman – beyond having sex of course.'

Draco burst out laughing. 'Well, that's patently not true, Hermione. Apart from a few hours sleeping, we've been together now for… let's see… almost sixty hours straight? And the last time I checked, YOU are a Muggle woman.'

'Interesting Draco. So you see ME more as a Muggle than a Muggleborn witch? Which is what I AM, by the way!'

She swiftly flicked her wand and shouted 'Incarcerous!' Draco blanched and tried to dodge the spell, but was instantaneously pinioned to the bed by ropes that Hermione had conjured to entrap him with.

'What the fuck?' he spluttered, trying in vain to break free.

Hermione smiled smugly. 'See? Definitely NOT a Muggle!'

'Okay Hermione! Point taken – you're a fucking WITCH! You don't need to keep me tied up. Now let me go!' he yelled, contorting his body. He suddenly winced, anxiously flicking his eyes towards his wound, which was oozing nastily.

'That looks horrible! Hermione said, a look of consternation on her face. She reached out and placed her hand on his chest. His skin was scorching hot. It had to be infection from the wound. 'You're burning up.'

'Get your hands off me!' he said hoarsely.

Hermione rolled her eyes impatiently. 'You didn't seem to mind me touching you before! Oh, I see… Have you had enough of being touched by MUGGLES for one night then, Draco?'

She knelt on the bed beside him, positioning her face just a few short inches from his own, forcing him to look up at her.

'I need to do this, okay?' She proceeded to apply a rudimentary cleansing spell to his wound.

Draco frantically tried to twist away from her, straining against the bonds tethering him to the bed. 'Please, Hermione. Don't. I'm begging you!'

'Begging me? Don't be silly,' she scowled. 'I'm only trying to help.'

'I don't need your fucking help,' he said. 'Just get away from me!' He glared at her defiantly, but Hermione couldn't help but notice that he was trembling.

'Please… Untie me.' His eyes glowed bright with hot terror.

'Only if you stay still and let me at least heal you,' she demanded, unfettering him with a brief sweep of her wand.

He immediately sprung up, like a caged animal, forcing her to slap him back down again, using the flat of her palm on his wounded shoulder, whilst jamming her knee against his thigh.

He hissed in response, tightly clenching his stomach muscles.

'You fucking cruel cow,' he cursed.

She sat up, still keeping her knee firmly in place on his thigh, before realizing, with a hot flush of shame, that she was effectively straddling his legs.

'Let's just get this over with, shall we?'

She quickly cast an Episkey, hoping this would at least stem the flow of blood and goo seeping from the wound.

'Just don't touch me,' he warned. There was a strange light in his eyes. She could feel the heat pulsating from him, enveloping her in his warmth.

He stayed her arm with his hand.

'I mean it, Hermione… You can't touch me because…. Because the wound…it's turning blue.'

'That's not possible,' she said. But even as she spoke, she could see there was a faint purplish tinge to the skin at the circular puckered edge of his wound. Without thinking, she delicately brushed her fingers against the opening, and yes, it was distinctly blue inside; the same sort of glacial, electric blue, Hermione thought with a heavy heart, that affected Dark Flux victims.

'Don't you ever fucking listen? I said, DON'T TOUCH IT!' Draco cried, red-faced with fury, thrusting her off his lap and onto the bed beside him.

She glared at him, smarting with stunned humiliation.

'Sorry, I'm so sorry,' he apologized, levering himself upright. 'I just don't want to hurt you, that's all!'

'But I've healed you before, Draco,' Hermione argued, eyes flashing furiously. 'If you were infected with Dark Flux, I'd probably be dead by now!'

Draco rubbed his eyes. He looked exhausted.

'There's no way you've been infected,' she said in calmer tones.

'Those fucking Rojos,' he spat. 'I wouldn't put it past them.'

'Draco… you're a pureblood wizard. Dark Flux can't hurt you,' Hermione said, tenderly touching his face, coaxing him to look at her. 'Please let me heal you.'

She didn't wait for an answer. She cast a healing spell followed by a spell designed to soothe any pain he might be feeling, which was quickly succeeded by an unmistakable look of relief on his face.

She speedily conjured fresh dressings, which she started to wind around his body.

'See… I survived,' she said with a reassuring smile, her hands dancing over his skin in quick, rapid movements. 'You didn't kill me.'

'I bet you think I'm a right prat.'

'Well, you're being super-paranoid,' Hermione replied. 'But then… It's been a pretty peculiar night all-round,' she added with a sigh.

'When I thought the girl – Rosario – was dead, I was sure it was my fault. You see I'd noticed the bluish colour of my wound before we went out, but I just figured that was probably infection… but once the whole DEAD thing happened, I suddenly feared that I was infected with Dark Flux… that I'd been made into a walking weapon…please don't laugh, Hermione, it's what I thought… I was convinced I could kill Muggles and Muggleborns… And then I remembered we'd been dancing, and how close we'd been, and I couldn't stop thinking, couldn't stop worrying, that I could kill YOU too.'

He exhaled deeply, shaking his head, almost as though he was trying to vanquish an image from his mind.

'It was all I could think about...' he said, staring at her intently. 'I couldn't give a toss about the dead girl on the bed beside me. I was seized by this… horrible dark fear… like the air was being crushed out of my lungs… I just had to know you were alive.'

Hermione stopped mid-spell, her wand falling from her grasp, unexpectedly captivated by the intensity in his voice and the heated warmth in his eyes. Soft crepe wound inexorably from her wand in one long spool, falling from the bed onto the floor.

'But you hate me,' she said, in a small, strangulated voice, remembering the cold fury he'd unleashed on her earlier at Villa Ofelia.

'Because _you_ hate me,' Draco replied in cool, sardonic tones.

They stared at each other, barely able to breathe. For a moment, it was as though the air between and around them shimmered, Hermione thought. Like a modified memory.

She placed her hand on his cheek, gazing at his eyes, his face. Had he always had such a beautiful mouth, she thought, tremulously tracing the curve of his lips with her thumb.

She never knew what possessed her to do it.

Drawn forwards, as though by an invisible thread, she snaked her arms around Draco's neck and kissed him, a soft, moist slide of her lips over his.

'Oh God,' he groaned, encircling her in his arms, capturing her mouth greedily with his own. She closed her eyes, losing herself in the luxuriant heat of his mouth, the taste of him, the feel of his fingers on her skin.

She allowed him to ease her backwards onto the bed. His hands felt large and warm, gliding sinuously along the length of her bare thighs and up her body. She shivered with pleasure as his fingers lightly brushed her painfully hard nipples, which were grazing the thin fabric of her dress. Unable to fight the sudden fierce surge of arousal sweeping through her, she instinctively wrapped her legs tightly around him, urging him closer, molding herself to him. She could feel his excitement, pressed hard against her. His breathing, harsh and heavy, was hot on her face.

'Hermione…' he murmured, as he trailed kisses across her jaw line to the soft skin beneath her ear. The feel of his hot, wet mouth on her neck was so exquisite, so tantalizing, she couldn't breath. He buried his hand deep within her hair, bending her face to his, drawing her into another burning kiss, plundering her mouth with such ferocity, it was as though a white, hot glow had bleached her mind.

She blissfully succumbed, moaning into his mouth, caressing his bottom lip with her tongue, tugging at it with her teeth, barely resisting a growing temptation to bite him, to taste his blood.

The urge was so strong, so violent, she was finally able to wrench her mouth away, to regain the cool air of sanity.

'No… No, Draco… It's not right…' she gasped. She hadn't meant for this to happen.

'Just - Just shut the brain down, Hermione, this once,' he said gruffly. 'Please.'

She tried to squirm free from under him. 'Let me go,' she insisted, pushing at his chest and arms, which had firmly locked her into a tight embrace.

She had to stop this before they went too far, so she shoved her hand hard into his face.

Draco instantly rolled away from her, holding his hand to his nose as though in pain. He sat up and checked his hand for any sign of blood, shaking his head in disbelief. The shock and hurt in his eyes were palpable.

'I'm not some fucking rapist, Hermione. I was stopping, okay?' he said in accusatory tones. His eyes were velvet-dark with excitement and he was still panting heavily.

'We can't do this,' she said bluntly, fervently wishing her wildly drumming heartbeat would slow and that she could regulate her erratic breathing.

Draco nodded wearily. 'So you keep saying.'

'I mean it!'

'You kissed me first, Hermione.'

'Just… just shut up!' she snapped. 'Forget it ever happened!'

She retrieved her wand.

'Now then… where were we?' she continued in shaky tones, avoiding his smoldering gaze. 'Yes… I had to finish your bandage… Stay still please.'

She resumed her dressing of his wound with an unsteady flick of her wrist.

He sat motionless, allowing her to wind crepe bandage around his shoulder and chest, but she could feel him staring at her.

'I was going to stop, Hermione, I promise you,' he said.

'I don't want to talk about it,' she said in cutting tones.

'You have no idea how much I've been wanting to kiss you.'

'Forget it Draco. It was nothing,' she asserted, trying to fasten his bandage with her wand and failing. For some unfathomable reason, the wand was sparking in her hand.

'It wasn't NOTHING.'

'I was merely proving a point.' She irritably slammed her wand onto the bed.

He narrowed his eyes sceptically. 'And what point was that then?'

'That you're not infected with Dark Flux. That you're not a walking Muggle-killer,' she said in a tight, controlled voice, painfully aware of how ridiculous she must sound.

Draco shook his head. 'You're the saddest fucking liar I've ever met. You wanted to kiss me too.'

She quickly finished fastening his bandage with fumbling fingers, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. 'All done,' she said, vigorously pushing her hair back from her face and smoothing down her dress.

Then she grabbed her wand, and focused with all her might, flourishing it in Draco's direction.

'Incarcerous!' she screeched, conjuring sufficient rope to bind his limbs together so that he couldn't follow her.

'Oh for fuck's sake, not again,' Draco groaned.

'That's better,' she grinned, relieved to see her wand was working properly after all.

She stalked out of the room, but was only halfway down the corridor before Draco had rejoined her, shaking off the ropes she had used to tether him with.

'So you _can_ use magic!' Hermione cried.

'Only when I have to,' he said. 'In an emergency.'

She opened her bedroom door with a swift swish of her wand.

Draco followed her into her bedroom, forcing the door open with his right shoulder before she had managed to close it behind her.

'What are you doing?' Hermione shrilled. Her head was beginning to thrum with a piercing falsetto, whining in her ears like a sudden attack of tinnitus. She needed to escape from this emotional rollercoaster, from him…

'I don't think it's a good idea to be alone at this juncture, do you?' Draco said pointedly.

'Just because we had a tiny little moment of _madness_, doesn't mean you need to follow me wherever I go!'

'You really are an egotist of the highest order, aren't you Hermione?' he retorted. 'There's a bunch of fucking maniacs out there spying on our every move, hexing me into fucking la-la land. This is not the time to indulge in splendid isolation!'

Hermione frantically rummaged through her pile of clothes, currently heaped in and around her suitcase, pulling out some fresh underwear and the blue dress Draco had bought her. She then stuffed everything else back into the case and whizzed into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

Once inside, she ripped off her dusky pink shift and knickers, and fell into the shower, scrabbling to turn the water on.

She sighed deeply, leaning her forehead against the cold, tiled wall of the shower cubicle, the water sloshing over her, as she watched Draco's blood dripping from her body, streaking and staining the water, before being sucked into the drain's swirling vortex.

Why had she done it? Why had she kissed him? Not just once, but over and over… and, even then, she'd wanted more.

Her stomach flip-flopped at the memory of his mouth on hers, on her neck, her jaw. She'd loved the feel of him, the taste of him, the pressure of their lips together, the teasing sweep of his tongue against hers.

She groaned in frustration, but also confusion. What she'd done was so bloody stupid. So completely out of control…

'You alright in there?' Draco called, smacking his hand loudly and repeatedly on the bathroom door.

'I'm fine,' she replied, her heart jumping inside of her.

She glimpsed the blue blur of the dress Draco had bought her through the frosted glass of the shower cubicle door.

She had to be stark, raving mad! There was no way she could wear _that _back to England. How could she ever explain it to Ron?

RON… His name sank into her stomach like a cold, heavy stone. He could never know what had happened here. Never, ever know how she had kissed Draco Malfoy. It would destroy him.

She scrambled out of the shower, seizing a towel, which she muscled through her thick, wet hair, before fixing it with a scrunchie. She wrapped the towel tightly around herself and headed into the bedroom, determined to act as normal. To pretend that nothing had happened between them.

Draco was sitting on her bed, looking drained and ill. The poor man needed sleep, Hermione thought, but there simply wasn't time… they had too much to do, too much to resolve before she headed home that same morning.

'Come on, Draco. We've got to get to Senor Canaro's,' Hermione said urgently, retrieving her jeans and a top from her suitcase and heading back into the bathroom to get changed. 'Have you got a lot of business meetings today?' she called out, in forced sprightly tones.

'A few, but later. Miguel suggested I go for a spin on his boat this morning.'

So clearly Miguel hadn't expected him to be dead or imprisoned. Even so… she had to warn him…

'Draco. I think Astrum is Red Star… _Jeroboam_'s Red Star…' she said plainly.

'_What_?'

'Astrum. The company Miguel works for!' Hermione re-emerged from the bathroom freshly clad in her jeans and green jersey top. 'I noticed the chauffeur who drove me home last night had a red star logo on his jacket.'

'Astrum,' Draco repeated slowly, deliberately. He licked his lower lip, momentarily lost in thought. 'But of course… it's Latin.'

He buried his face in his hands. 'Shit! I'm such a fool. Rosario…. Estrella…. _Red Star_. Maybe Miguel was trying to tell me all along? To warn me off!'

'That's not quite true,' Hermione said, rifling through her rather jaded memories of the night before. 'We tried to leave earlier in the evening, but Miguel insisted we went to Villa Ofelia.'

'I just thought Miguel wanted to get into your knickers.'

'Maybe his job was to keep us apart?'

Draco pondered this, a sullen expression on his face. 'I hope you're wrong. I've had good times with Miguel.'

'I don't think the main aim of last night's extravaganza was to _kill_ you, Draco,' Hermione said, hoping this was some form of comfort. 'But to frighten you.'

'Well, it certainly succeeded,' Draco said bitterly.

'The fact is, Los Rojos clearly know where we're staying and what we've been doing… they've had every chance to kill us both… but they haven't,' she added thoughtfully.

'You forget it was Miguel's _Astrum_ plane that flew us to Santa Maria? We could have died in that bloody morgue!'

'We need to see Miguel and find out precisely what he knows about all this,' Hermione said in efficient, clipped tones. She patted flat her clothes in her suitcase and zipped it shut in one clean, brisk movement.

'I thought you were going home,' Draco said, unable to smother the gleeful smirk which had exploded onto his face.

'I'll leave straight after. Pity you can't Portkey with me… You should be in St Mungo's, not gallivanting around Buenos Aires.'

'If it wasn't for that bloody scanner…'

They locked eyes.

'You had it hidden from view, didn't you, Draco?'

Draco blanched. 'Fuck. I think I showed it to Rosario.'

'_You what_?'

XXX

CHAPTER TRACKS: **"WHITE RABBIT" by JEFFERSON AIRPLANE **

"**YOU'LL BE MINE" by THE PIERCES**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Thanks to Apurva & Lou.

9


	17. A Pin's Fee

_**Hermione and Draco confront Senor Canaro and Miguel… with ghastly consequences.**_

**17. A Pin's Fee**

The scanner was gone from Draco's hotel room.

'And you're still sure Rosario was a Muggle?' Hermione asked Draco, arching a sceptical eyebrow. 'She's clearly working for Los Rojos.'

'To be fair, getting the scanner out was all _my_ idea. I wanted her to check me for Dark Flux,' Draco said peevishly. 'The bloody thing kept beeping furiously every time Rosario pointed it in my direction… Seemed a little ominous to me.'

'Maybe it was malfunctioning?' Hermione said brightly. 'It beeped when Henrik was holding it too, remember?' Although the thought did occur to her that Draco had also been standing next to Henrik at the time.

'Anyway. Los Rojos have the scanner now,' Draco said glumly. 'Maybe my 'good' friend Miguel can cast some light on its whereabouts, seeing as last night now looks like one big set-up.'

He was right, of course, Hermione thought. Clearly Draco had been hexed or drugged, seduced, then duped into believing he had killed Rosario – and in the process, Rosario or her accomplices had stolen the scanner from Draco's hotel room.

Even so, it seemed an unnecessarily _convoluted _way to just get hold of that scanner, Hermione reflected. There had to be something else going on…

'We can grill Miguel when we see him later. Let's first see what Senor Canaro has to say for himself. I'm sure he's up to his neck in this business.'

XXX

The moment the taxi pulled away, leaving them alone on the pavement outside Senor Canaro's house, Hermione half-regretted that they had come at all. There was an odd, knotted broiling sensation churning through her stomach – something she soon recognized as serious foreboding.

The house was forbiddingly dark in the purplish light of incipient dawn, blank and faceless.

Hermione soon saw that Draco was feeling similarly rattled. He kept blowing out his cheeks nervously, studying the house with unalloyed suspicion.

'You feel it too?' she asked in a still, quiet voice. There was something about this place, this street, that made her feel preyed upon, as though there was a dark, skulking presence watching her every move, listening to her every word, and even reading her thoughts.

Draco didn't say anything, but then he didn't need to. His eyes were darting to and fro, alert to the slightest rustle of soft wind whispering though the trees or the distant screech of tyres braking on the main road far away in the distance.

'Let's get this over with. My shoulder hurts like buggery,' he murmured.

'Don't forget to ask Senor Canaro about that Mediwizard he knows.'

Draco frowned. 'Canaro's hardly likely to help me once we've accused him of sending us to our deaths in Patagonia with a false memory, is he, now?'

'You ask him about the Mediwizard FIRST, Draco. Isn't that obvious?' Hermione said in practical, prissy tones.

To their surprise, and adding to their sense of dread, the door was slightly ajar. Draco hesitantly pushed the door wide open. Inside, the hallway was pitch-black, a gaping vacuum.

'Give me your wand,' he hissed between his teeth.

'But….'

'Just fucking hand it over,' he said grappling with her hand in the dark, forcing her to relinquish the wand. 'Stay here.'

'Oh, for god's sake, Draco, don't try to be the hero, it doesn't suit you,' Hermione protested, brusquely reclaiming her wand and clutching it tightly.

Hermione pushed past Draco into the dark hallway, wand aloft. She muttered 'Lumos,' and a welcome glow shone from the tip of her wand, illuminating the entry to the house.

Draco bit his lip nervously, his eyes flicking from Hermione's face to the hallway beyond. The light from Hermione's wand only extended to a mid-way point down the long, shadowy corridor which led to the enclave which housed the Pensieve, before being swallowed up into the thick, velvety darkness.

'Not so fast!' Draco retorted, lunging forwards and twisting her wand out of her grasp in a surprising show of strength. 'I'LL go first,' he said petulantly, heading deep into the hallway. 'Senor Canaro!' he called.

His voice echoed eerily, ringing out in the silence… a silence so deep, so dense, it was palpable. She could hear her heart pumping loudly in her chest, almost like it belonged to a separate entity, standing alongside her.

There was something very odd about this lack of noise, she realized.

Where was the cacophony of birdsong?

Draco strode forwards, pausing at the entrance to Senor Canaro's potions room. He thrust Hermione's wand into the room before him, then stepped inside.

From where she was standing by the front door, Hermione could see the dancing flashes of light from her wand, waving to and fro, up and down, reflected onto the hallway wall opposite Canaro's potions room.

And then the light stopped. Frozen in its tracks.

'What is it?' Hermione shrilled.

She sprinted to the open door, colliding with Draco who was charging out of the potions room, his eyes wild with terror.

'You can't go in there,' he warned, his hand shaking so much, the light from the wand pooling at their feet was juddering uncontrollably. Hermione tried to push past him but he flung her back against the wall.

'Merlin, Draco! I don't need mollycoddling!' she sniped, although the fear in Draco's face, gaunt-looking in the half-shadow, and the strange look in his eye, was giving her undeniable pause for thought.

'No, Hermione, you've got to trust me on this,' he said firmly, placing a large, flat hand against the side of her neck. 'You really don't want to go in there!'

'Get off me,' she growled scornfully, wriggling free. 'I've seen my fair share of horrors these last couple of days. What about poor Ana? What could be worse than that?'

'This is MUCH worse than that.'

Hermione seized his arm holding her wand, and jerked him towards her, then directed her wand into the room so that she could see inside.

The room had been brutally vandalised. The bird and animal cages had been opened, and all living creatures were missing or lying dead, in pools of blood, feathers scattered, eyes glassy and cold. Every single bottle and jar had been smashed to smithereens, the ingredients and fluids spilled and flowing into a thick, viscous sludge.

There was a fetid stench, so acrid, so pervasive, Hermione felt sure the tiny hairs inside her nasal passages were being singed. She recoiled in disgust, instinctively shoving a hand over her face to stop the warm bile which had flooded into her mouth from spilling over.

But it was too late. Her stomach heaved involuntarily, forcing a thin trail of burning acid to erupt onto her hand and then onto the floor. She wiped her hand on the wall beside her, and in so doing, turned her head sideways. The sight that greeted her eyes was grotesque, monstrous; she could hardly believe it was real.

She felt her knees buckle beneath her and started sliding downwards, her shoes slipping in the putrid, sticky gloop that coated the floor. Draco caught her, hooking both his arms tightly around her waist. The wand was now jabbed against her middle, but its light-bearing tip was pointing directly ahead at the gruesome spectacle of Senor Canaro, tethered to a chair in a spread-eagled position.

He was naked, but this was barely relevant, as he had been sliced open from his gullet to his groin, his skin peeled back, and his entrails ripped from him. His long, looped intestines dangled loose and limp, like a bloodied string of sausages. His face was contorted in shock and pain, and his skin sagged, his beady eyes sunken and dulled.

'What kind of magic was this?' Hermione whispered hoarsely.

Draco was pressed taut against her back. She could feel the rapid movement of his stomach and chest, pushing in and out, in tandem with his ragged breathing.

'At a guess, this was Muggle.' His voice rang loud and abrasive in her ear. 'I've – I've seen the effects of an entrail-expelling curse, and it's nothing like this.' He unconsciously dug his nails into her arms as he spoke. 'What is it with you Muggles? Why's everything so fucking bloody? So filthy?'

Hermione frantically clawed herself from his vice-like grip, panting furiously. She rubbed her arms where he had hurt her. A whiny hysterical voice was ringing in her head, telling her to get out of this place, to get away from this man, who suddenly seemed so cruel and unknowable in this eerie half-light.

She made a dash for the door, then remembered he had her wand. She paused on the threshold, looking back into the darkness.

The faint glimmer of light afforded by her wand was coming closer, gaining in strength and volume. Within moments, Draco was standing directly in front of her, his pale hair shimmering, his eyes gleaming brightly.

'You're frightening me,' Hermione whimpered, ashamed of the hot tears stinging her cheeks.

'There's a dead man with his guts spilled out, and you're scared of ME?' Draco bellowed. 'That's just about the most pathetic thing I've ever heard.'

'Can we go now?'

Draco shoved her wand into her shaking hand, then pushed roughly past her and stalked off into the grey morning light.

XXX

'I don't understand why you think it was _Muggles_ who killed him?' Hermione whined, desperate for some kind of response from Draco who was grey and stony-faced. They had stumbled outside and were sitting on the kerb of the pavement facing the dark, forbidding frontage of Canaro's house on the other side of the road.

'Wizards prefer a clean kill,' Draco said pointedly.

'That's utter crap!' Hermione shrieked. 'This had to be the work of Los Rojos, and you know it!'

'And we also know that JEROBOAM employs Muggles, don't we? Including, it seems, my erstwhile friend Miguel…'

Hermione sighed. 'Don't jump to conclusions, Draco. Miguel probably didn't have anything to do with this!'

'Well let's go find out,' he grunted in reply. 'Come on.'

XXX

Miguel's boat was docked in a small, chic harbour a few miles outside of the main city of Buenos Aires. There were a number of similarly sized sailing boats lining this section of the River Plate. Miguel's was one of the largest and flashiest, its freshly applied paintwork glistening in the bright morning sunshine.

Standing on the wooden jetty which abutted his boat, Hermione and Draco could see Miguel moving around inside the sizeable cabin. He had company.

'Fuck,' Draco hissed between his teeth, his eyes burning with indignation. 'It's that Rosario bitch!'

Hermione shot him a furious look. 'You could be a little happier that she's actually alive!'

The commotion prompted by their arrival had been noted by Rosario, who peered inquisitively out of the cabin window, eyes screwed tight against the dazzling white sunshine.

Draco and Hermione scurried back to the safety of the car park and ducked behind a car.

'Did she see us?' Hermione asked.

'No, I don't think so,' Draco said irritably, his eyes alighting on Hermione's brown leather suitcase which had been left, slap bang, alone and slightly surreal-looking, on the jetty.

'Damn,' Hermione muttered. She swished her wand, concealing the bag from view with a Disillusionment Charm. 'Right, Draco. Maybe our best bet is to Apparate on board.'

Pained apprehension swept across his face.

'Look… the thing is….'

'Another time, Draco,' she said impatiently, scrutinising the deck of Miguel's boat. 'Just hold on.' She instantly Apparated, Draco in tow, onto Miguel's boat.

Miguel had settled himself comfortably into a deckchair. He was dressed in a baggy white vest top and underpants and was glugging a bottle of Quilmes lager, even though it was still early in the morning.

He certainly didn't look like a man who had spent the night torturing and disemboweling Senor Canaro, that was for sure.

Miguel instantly screamed in horror, the lager bottle crashing from his hand onto the highly polished wooden deck, at the sight of Hermione and Draco suddenly materialising from thin air in front of him.

'No, no!' he cried in abject terror, his tanned complexion suddenly pale. 'They promised me…. They said you wouldn't be killed!' he sniveled, quivering in fear, thick globs of sweat beading his forehead.

Draco stepped towards him prompting Miguel to shrink into the deckchair. 'What the hell are you?' he squeaked. 'Fantasmas?'

'_Ghosts_?' Draco smirked. He cocked his head at Hermione, a mischievous glint in his eye. 'You hear that, Hermione? He thinks we're ghosts!'

Hermione gave Miguel a pained, weary look. 'No, Miguel, we're not ghosts.' She brandished her wand, and with a deft flourish, transformed Miguel's deckchair into a plush red sofa, up-ending Miguel in the process. He flopped clumsily onto the floor. 'We're wizards!' She grinned puckishly. 'Aren't we, Draco?'

Draco nodded. 'Don't act so surprised, Miguel. You know wizards exist! Someone hexed me last night, and you know exactly who it was, don't you?'

'No, Draco… I – I,' Miguel gasped, breathlessly. 'I don't know what you're talking about! Honest!'

Draco's eyes narrowed in disbelief.

'You fucking cretinous liar,' he jeered, his voice laced with menace. He stepped closer to Miguel who rapidly retreated, cowering behind the newly-conjured red sofa in a vain attempt to avoid Draco's penetrating stare.

'You set me up last night!' Draco spat, towering above his friend. 'I could have died! I was hexed so bad, I thought my brain might explode!'

'What is this HEXED, you talk about?' Miguel said in pleading tones.

'I was so fucking delirious, I even thought I'd killed Rosario, you fucking moron!' Draco bellowed. 'Speaking of which… Hey! Rosario! We know you're in there!' he called in the direction of the cabin.

Hermione immediately levelled a Reducto at the cabin. There was a clamorous crunching din as glass shattered and wood splintered.

Rosario was clearly visible, exposed by the gaping hole Hermione had blown into the cabin's frontage.

Clad only in a skimpy leopard-skin bikini, the girl was whimpering with fear.

She stared fixedly at Draco, whose face was contorted with loathing, his lip curled in snarling derision.

'I-I was told to do it. It was a job… nothing personal,' she stuttered.

'Oh, I see,' Draco sneered. 'So you speak English now, do you? And I bet you work for Astrum, too,' he said in cutting tones. He turned to Miguel. 'Astrum. Or 'Red Star,' as we call them in Europe. Owned by a Mr Jeroboam. Did your directive to fuck me over come straight from the big man himself?'

Miguel shook his head vehemently. 'I don't know who… everything has been by telephone… mainly from London….'

'London?' Hermione asked. But Jeroboam was based in Geneva.

Miguel nodded sheepishly. He tried to deflect Draco's fierce gaze by addressing his comments to Hermione instead. 'I had specific orders, Mrs Weasley, to ensure that YOU were kept out of harm's way throughout the entire operation.'

'Who told you this?' Hermione asked, her eyes hard and blazing.

Miguel shrugged helplessly. 'I never knew his name. But he was definitely an Englishman and works for Astrum – or Red Star, as you call it - in London…'

Hermione bristled with suspicion. Jeroboam had recently withdrawn all Red Star operations from the UK… so did Miguel mean Red Star's subsidiary, Arcana? That couldn't be possible. Ephraim Golowitz had bought Arcana, lock, stock and barrel, just last week. At that point, _no one_ – including herself – had any idea that she would be accompanying Draco to South America … until, of course, Los Rojos had attacked Ron.

'You see, I needed the money… ' Miguel continued, in a beseeching tone. 'They threatened to fire me if I didn't do what they said.' He turned towards Draco, although he still couldn't quite summon the courage to look him in the eye. 'I'm so sorry.'

Draco shook his head in exasperation, and yet something in his stance, a slight relaxation of his shoulders, suggested to Hermione that his undoubted fury at Miguel's betrayal was tempered by the knowledge that it had only been short-lived, presumably only since Astrum took over his company.

Miguel tried to get up from the floor, hoisting himself into a standing position using the transfigured sofa as a support.

He then flopped heavily onto the sofa, shoulders heaving, gasping for breath.

'So let's get this clear, Miguel,' Draco said, 'what was the objective of this little _operation_? Because there's got to be better ways to get hold of that fucking scanner other than hexing me into bloody oblivion!'

Miguel looked puzzled. 'What do you mean, _SCANNER_? What are you talking about?'

Draco grimaced at Rosario. 'Okay, so it had to be YOU who took it; or did you have an accomplice?'

'My task was to isolate Draco, that was all,' Rosario responded, in pristine, lightly accented English. 'Nothing about a scanner.'

She then glanced sideways before staring stiffly ahead, chin held high. However, it was this tiny, involuntary movement which told Hermione the likely current whereabouts of the scanner.

Hermione immediately whispered 'Accio', focusing on the metal attaché case, which instantly spun through the air towards her. She quickly grabbed it.

Both Miguel and Rosario were open-mouthed in amazement.

'How did you do that?' Miguel choked.

Hermione ignored him, keeping her wand firmly trained on Rosario. 'You're a liar! You took this from Draco's room, didn't you? Who told you to take it?'

Rosario's reply was inaudible, her eyes wide in confusion.

Hermione stepped forwards, grabbing the girl by her wrist and pulling her closer.

'Speak up!' she demanded.

Rosario opened her mouth to speak, but instead emitted a dry, coughing sound, her eyes flitting nervously from side to side. For a split second, Hermione thought her eyes lingered a moment longer on the car park.

Miguel addressed Rosario in Spanish. He sounded defeated and weary.

Rosario snapped back, railing at him in quickfire Spanish.

'Hey! English!' Draco shouted.

'On my mother's life, I never took anything, I promise,' Rosario said in a small, mousy voice. She turned to Draco, blushing furiously. 'While you were sleeping… two men came to your room.'

'You let them in?' Draco asked, a crooked smile on his face.

'I don't know,' Rosario sighed. 'Everything's a blur. They gave me a drink. Told me to sleep, and from that moment on, I don't remember a thing.'

Hermione sighed. She suspected Rosario was telling the truth. Rosario had clearly drunk a Draught of Living Death; all part of this elaborate ruse to terrify the hell out of Draco.

'So why's the scanner here?' she asked.

Rosario shrugged. 'I don't know. It was here when I woke up. I recognised it because Draco showed it to me last night… I didn't know what it was, and I still don't…'

'Look Draco. Mrs Weasley,' Miguel remonstrated. 'Nobody ever mentioned this damned SCANNER…. I was to get you drunk, Draco… to keep you distracted!'

'I was much more than drunk, Miguel! I was hallucinating!'

Miguel vehemently shook his head, protesting his innocence, but Rosario butted in before he could speak. 'It was me. My fault. I was given sweets to give to you. I think they were drugged.'

'Who gave them to you?'

'Was it one of the two men who later came into Draco's room?' Hermione asked shrewishly.

Rosario nodded. 'Yes. One of them drives the company limousine.'

'But of course,' Hermione muttered, more to herself.

'He drove us here from Villa Ofelia.'

Which meant that Los Rojos knew where Miguel harboured his boat, Hermione thought with a chill. They could be here now…

She exchanged a worried look with Draco. Clearly, the same thought had occurred to him too.

Miguel stood up from the plush red sofa, arms outstretched in a dramatic show of attempted reconciliation.

'Draco. You are my friend. My dear, dear friend. I am truly sorry!' he wailed. 'I had so many debts… I was weak…'

Draco surveyed the lavish boat with a sarcastic leer. 'Oh, yeah… really, really suffering, weren't you?'

However, any further insults were suddenly curtailed by a swooping whoosh and a blood-curdling cry from Miguel.

He stumbled forwards, his face frozen into a rigid mask of unexpected pain, collapsing into Draco's arms.

Draco fell backwards, overwhelmed by Miguel's lumbering weight.

To Hermione's horror, she could see an arrow had been fired deep into Miguel's back.

'Shit!' Draco cried. 'Where the fuck did that come from?'

Draco swiftly eased Miguel towards the sofa, and into the comfort of Hermione's arms, then sprinted to the side of the boat, scanning the area for Miguel's attacker.

Rosario had dashed to the side of the boat too, and was hastily scrambling overboard, making a run for it.

'Get back here! We haven't finished with you yet!' Draco yelled, running to grab at her before she disappeared from view.

He was left clutching at thin air.

He cast a look of deep frustration at Hermione.

'Take this!' she called, throwing him her wand, which he caught in one hand, exercising his Seeker reflexes, before clambering over the side of the boat in hot pursuit.

He was gone.

Alone with Miguel, Hermione could feel panic rising dizzily up inside of her.

Miguel's hefty bulk seemed to be getting heavier and heavier by the second.

She gently levered him onto the sofa. He lolled against her, his head slumped onto her chest. The arrow impaling his back remained upright; stiff and bloodied.

Her mind was racing. Whoever had shot the bow and arrow was probably still out there.

With Draco.

Her stomach clenched in fear.

Draco might be running straight into danger…

She had to suppress the urge to push Miguel aside and chase after him.

But there was no way she could do that, not now. Miguel was clinging to her, his face rocked with spasms of pain, and he had turned a ghastly white.

'Get – get it out,' he croaked.

'I can't,' Hermione said. 'It would kill you.'

'I insist.'

'No, Miguel… I'm sorry.'

Miguel looked sadly despondent. He reached behind himself with one arm, face contorted with pain at the effort, and tried to yank the arrow out himself.

'I can't bear it inside of me! Please… Mrs Weasley… Hermione… I'm begging you!' he groaned.

'Oh hell,' Hermione muttered, blinking back tears. Was he likely to die anyway? Would removing the arrow simply hasten the inevitable? Maybe there was a fighting chance she could use magic to staunch the flow of blood once the arrow was out of him?

Hermione reluctantly folded her palm around the arrow and tugged it gently, repelled at the bloodied jelly which was already coating the wood and the ripping sound of the arrow tearing through Miguel's flesh.

'Harder,' he begged.

She steeled herself, then pulled harder, instinctively retching as the arrowhead burst out of Miguel's body with a flurry of blood.

Miguel flinched, gasping at the intense pain.

The exit wound was large and gaping, blood spewing freely. Within moments, Miguel's white vest top was saturated in bright, crimson blood.

Hermione closed her eyes and focused hard, muttering charm after charm – anything she could think of to try and help Miguel; but nothing seemed to stem the flow of blood. Who had done this? Was this the work of Los Rojos? Were they trying to silence Miguel before he spilled the beans?

'Listen. This is important,' Miguel said, breathlessly, his eyes rolling, blood frothing from his mouth. 'Astrum… Red Star. I swear to you, they didn't want to kill Draco. You must believe me.'

'Are you absolutely sure about that?' Hermione asked in firm, insistent tones. Sure, Los Rojos had the chance to kill Draco – and indeed herself – and had chosen not to. But they had also shot Draco with a potentially lethal magic… one which might still kill him.

Miguel lowered his eyelids in assent.

'They've decided he's a pawn and not a player. A decoy… The man from London – he said… he said…' Miguel screwed up his eyes in pain, suddenly unable to continue speaking.

'Said what?' Hermione urged.

Miguel took a deep, wheezy breath, summoning the energy to go on. 'He said they wanted to _frighten_ Draco. To _warn _him off… and that I was to keep tabs on him – and you, of course – that's all,' he gasped, trembling with the effort of speaking.

'But I fear, Mrs Weasley, I fear there is a greater game afoot, into which we – you, me, maybe even Draco too – have blindly stumbled. The man from London, he fears it's too late…'

'Too late? What for?'

'He said that… that…,' Miguel spluttered, choking on his blood. 'Sorry… I – I…'

He opened his mouth to speak further, but instead of words, dark blood gushed out, streaming down his chin and neck.

'It's okay, Miguel,' Hermione whispered, her throat tight with emotion. 'Everything's okay…'

However, he was still desperately trying to tell her something, his eyes wide with meaning, as he frantically strained to shape the words he wanted to say with his lips, but was then overcome by a strangulated gurgling, as red bloody froth oozed from his mouth.

He was drowning in his own blood.

'Don't want to die… please don't let me die,' he rasped, clutching her hand so tightly she had to gulp back a cry of pain. He was shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Hermione wanted to reassure him, but the words jammed inside her mouth. So she held him close instead, barely able to suppress the sobs which brimmed up inside of her.

Miguel was now convulsing repeatedly, battling to breathe, but she could feel the strength sapping inexorably away from him. The fight was gradually deserting his body.

'Hermione!' Draco yelled.

He was shouting from the jetty below them.

'Hermione! Where are you?' he cried.

Hermione continued to hold Miguel. 'I'm here,' she murmured softly. 'I'm still here.' She gently stroked Miguel's hair, which was sticking clammily to his forehead.

Miguel's breathing was increasingly laboured. Long, protracted rattling breathes… which suddenly stilled.

'Hermione?' Draco said, his voice much nearer. He had scrambled back onto the boat and was now standing next to her, holding her wand.

'Oh fuck,' he groaned. He knelt down next to Hermione and Miguel, and placed his hand over Hermione's. He paused for a long moment, then gently tipped Miguel away from her, so that he was lying on his back on the sofa, his eyes staring skywards, blank in death.

They both stared solemnly at Miguel's lifeless body.

'I – I take it Rosario got away,' Hermione eventually said in a constricted, small voice, tears now flowing freely down her face.

Draco nodded, seemingly numbed by what had happened.

'What do we do now?' she whispered.

'I'll deal with him,' Draco said in reassuring tones. 'I know his mother.'

He sighed deeply, and looked at Hermione: a long, lingering look.

'Come here,' he said tenderly, pulling Hermione upwards from the sofa into a close embrace.

Hermione suddenly felt overcome with emotion, bursting into loud, wrenching sobs. She buried her face in Draco's chest, glad of his warmth and closeness.

Draco tilted her chin upwards. 'Everything's going to be alright, Hermione, I promise,' he said in soothing tones, smothering her face in hot, wet kisses, brushing away her tears with his lips.

For a brief moment, she succumbed to the soft, warmth of his mouth gliding across her skin, before harsh reality intervened.

'No, Draco, you can't do that…' she sobbed, tearing herself away from his grasp. 'It isn't right.'

'But it feels right,' he said huskily, his voice cracked with emotion, 'it feels like the most natural thing in the world.'

She turned away from Draco, facing Miguel instead.

The sight of his blood-soaked body sprawled on the plush, red sofa was an obscenity, she thought. Such a tragic waste of a bright, young man's life. And for what?

'Did you see who did it?'

'I think so.' Draco swallowed hard. 'It looked like that Senor Asusto… you know, the guy from the memory?'

'Are you serious?'

'We know he lived in El Calafate… there might be somebody there who remembers him… I think I'll head back to Patagonia, see what I can find out.'

Hermione could feel her heart thumping loudly in her chest. She didn't like the sound of that.

'Can't you wait?' she asked, spinning round to face him. 'Remember you need to see a Mediwizard, and then – and then I could come back, once this bloody stupid Ministry Tribunal's over…' It suddenly felt so small and petty. She could hardly believe she'd ever attached any importance to it at all.

'No, Hermione. Just get yourself home. Safe and sound.'

'What about Ron? He can replace me!' she said urgently. 'It's not right for you to do this alone, Draco.'

'I can manage,' he said, but then a sullen shadow scuttled across his face. 'When are you leaving?'

'Pretty much now. I can Apparate to the airport and Portkey from there,' she said, lips pursed, eyes shining brightly.

She cast a last, lingering glance at Miguel's body slumped on the sofa, and gently prised her wand from Draco's grasp.

'Wait,' he said, tightly enfolding her in his arms, ensuring that he side-Apparated with her, away from the boat and back to the jetty, where Hermione's brown leather suitcase was waiting for its owner. 'You can't just go without saying goodbye.'

He fished his mobile phone out of her pocket and thrust it at her. 'And you need this too.'

She turned the mobile over in her hand, her eyes glazed with tears. 'This has been awful,' she said in a quiet, choked voice. 'Truly, truly awful.' She leant forwards, falling into Draco, and balanced her forehead against his, keenly aware that his mouth was open and inviting, so close to her own, his breathe bathing her lips in luxuriant warmth.

'Please be careful,' she whispered.

'I'll be fine,' he murmured, pulling her closer.

Hermione momentarily allowed herself to melt against him, slipping her arms around his neck.

The consciousness that something huge and undeniable had happened between them during these last few days, weighed heavily inside of her, suffusing every inch of her, robbing her of the ability to think or breath normally.

As much as she knew she had to leave him here, to head home to her family, to the people she loved… at heart, she didn't really want to. At heart, she wanted to give in to the heated impulses raging through her body… so much it hurt.

She hated feeling like this.

She took a deep breath, extricated herself from Draco's arms, and picked up her leather suitcase. It was time to go.

CHAPTER TRACK: **"BIGGER THAN US" by WHITE LIES**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except my original characters

Thanks to Apurva & Lou

7


	18. Arcana

_**Confused and frightened by recent events, Hermione resolves to get some answers… but where is Draco? Her investigations lead to a surprising discovery.**_

**18. Arcana **

The Ministry Tribunal was cancelled.

Hermione could hardly believe her eyes.

She glared with rising fury and frustration at the Ministry missive, stamped with its florid, golden 'MoM' crest, which had been delivered that morning by owl.

She had left Draco in a perilous situation and dashed back to England to prepare for this damned Tribunal, assuming this was a make-or-break moment for her career at the Department for Magical Law Enforcement.

But instead, she had been 'suspended pending further investigations.'

A second message soon arrived from Padma.

_'Hermione,_

_I speak for everyone in our office – we can't believe you've been suspended! It's that evil Mr Jinks! _

_He's taken to sitting at YOUR desk, by the way, while you've been on leave, watching us all like a wizened old bird, waiting for us to slip up._

_Hope you can come back soon!'_

'What does Padma have to say about all this?' Ron asked. He sat next to Hermione on their worn, brown sofa and tugged Padma's note towards him. He quickly scanned the note, his frown deepening.

'She blames Mr Jinks,' Hermione said, 'and I don't blame her – although I can't help but worry if Mr Jinks has another agenda.'

'Seems obvious to me,' Ron sniffed peevishly. 'Jeroboam's spies know you're involved in investigating him… Jeroboam's got friends in high places - including the Ministry. I bet Jinks is his poodle.'

'Perhaps,' Hermione said in a low, soft voice, although, privately, she wasn't sure if Jeroboam was as big and bad an enemy as she'd first feared.

Yet something about Miguel's dying words had certainly struck a chord…

The circumstances of Miguel's death also puzzled her greatly. She'd assumed that Senor Asusto was working for Jeroboam; after all, it was _his_ modified memory which lured them to Patagonia. But If Draco was right, then it was Senor Asusto who had murdered Miguel!

That didn't make sense if Miguel was working for Jeroboam too…

Ron remained convinced that Jeroboam continued to orchestrate events to his own liking.

'These Rojos sound like right bloody bastarsd if you ask me,' he remonstrated.' They shot Draco and offed that Sheriff guy and the potions man. And then you saw them steal the bodies of those Dark Flux victims from that morgue.'

Hermione nodded glumly. It was undeniably true.

'Well… there you have it!' Ron bellowed. 'They wanted the bodies to extract this Dark Flux matter! This Jonas chap was in their way, so they finished him off.'

'And Miguel?'

Ron sighed deeply. 'Look Hermione, I know you liked the guy, but he was clearly Jeroboam's patsy. Don't believe a word he told you!'

But Hermione was unconvinced. She was still haunted by Miguel's last gasp revelation that the man from London, Jeroboam's fixer – whoever he was – had claimed it was already 'too late.' What had he meant by this?

Then there was Henrik Thyssen's dour conclusion, after many years of investigations, that these Dark Flux deaths were the result of a serial killer – or killers – which would mean, Hermione realized, that Dark Flux had ALREADY been weaponised.

XXX

The weekend passed in quietly anxious domesticity. Hermione hoped to hear from Draco, but his weighty silence sent dark premonitory shivers trembling through her. By the time Monday arrived, Hermione was feeling decidedly perturbed.

She was due to spend the day alone at home. Having been named Chief Investigating Auror on what was fast becoming an international Quidditch corruption scandal, Ron had a mountain of work to get through, and was stuck at the Ministry. Rose and Hugo were at school.

She was suffering a ferocious headache and had the inklings of a cold, worsened by the distinctly wintry temperatures of a British December. She'd got too used to the summer sun of South America.

She gazed disconsolately out of her kitchen window at dank grey skies overhead, promising rain.

Had Draco found a mediwizard? This was one of her predominant concerns, constantly rumbling through her head. If only she could return to Argentina to help Draco track down Senor Asusto.

But this was impossible. Ron was due to head off to Slovenia that same evening to interview potential witnesses in his Quidditch investigation.

And Rose and Hugo had missed her terribly.

But nothing could silence the nagging worries raging through her.

XXX

Unable to sit at home fretting for a minute longer, Hermione walked into the village of Ottery St Catchpole to telephone the Alvear Palace Hotel using Draco's mobile phone, to see if Draco had returned to Buenos Aires. She had tried to dial from home, but the plethora of magical energies swirling through Wisteria Cottage negated the usage of any electrical or telecommunication devices.

Standing outside St Botolph's Primary School, buffeted by a strong, chill wind, Hermione finally found a decent signal and was able to track down a number for the hotel. She eventually spoke to the rather snooty receptionist Draco and she had first encountered at check-in. He clearly recalled Senor Malfoy, and informed her that Senor Malfoy had checked out of the hotel on Saturday morning.

So had he already been to Patagonia? If so, why hadn't she heard from him? Had something happened or was he just avoiding her?

She glanced at the school building where her children were currently in class. If she squinted hard enough at one of the windows, she even fancied she could see the shady outline of her daughter's voluminous auburn hair, seated at the front of a classroom. She smiled proudly. Rose was rapidly turning into a model student – much as she herself had been. Odd, really - even though she had only been away from home for a few short days, Hermione couldn't help but notice an incipient maturity in her eldest child: a quiet, gracious demeanour which actually reminded Hermione of her own mother.

_Mother_…, she thought. But of course… Draco might have made contact with Narcissa!

Hermione sped home to dispatch an owl to Malfoy Manor asking Narcissa if she had received any news about Draco, making sure that her missive sounded like a professional enquiry.

Narcissa sent a prompt reply, urging Hermione to come and have tea with her! As for Draco, he was working abroad, but she had no idea where…. But maybe Ephraim could help? After all, he was Draco's boss.

XXX

Ephraim Golowitz was at a business meeting, his rather prim secretary at Arcana's London office said, with a slight sneer.

'Any idea when he'll be back?' Hermione asked.

The secretary eyed Hermione suspiciously over half-moon spectacles. 'And what did you say your name was?'

'Hermione. Hermione Weasley,' Hermione said irritably. They'd already covered this.

The secretary sighed. 'I'll tell Mr Golowitz you visited. How can he reach you?'

Hermione jotted down her address in Ottery St Catchpole on a slip of paper and handed it to the secretary. The secretary gave her an oblique look, adjusted her spectacles, and studied the note. 'Have you got a contact number?'

'Oh. Yes. But of course,' Hermione said hastily. Ephraim's secretary clearly thought she was a Muggle. She quickly navigated the menu on Draco's mobile phone, finally tracing its number which she then gave to the secretary. The secretary jotted this down, promising to inform Mr Golowitz of her visit.

Hermione dawdled along a corridor heading back towards the front entrance to Arcana Pharmaceuticals, which was situated in a modern, commercial district of Muggle London not too far from the Ministry of Magic.

'If it's more convenient, you can always Floo from my office,' came a familiar voice.

It was Anthony Goldstein.

'Tony!' Hermione exclaimed. 'Thanks for that, but I was thinking of visiting my folks. I can catch a bus from here.'

Tony furrowed his brow in confusion.

'They're Muggles, remember?' Hermione said in lowered tones. 'It might look a bit odd if I suddenly sprung out of the fireplace!'

Tony nodded. 'Yeah, I forgot.' He paused, seemingly stuck for words. 'Last time we met – you seemed a little _upset_,' he said eventually.

Hermione coloured. But of course. He'd been with her that fateful night at 'Le Bonheur.' Lord knows what she'd said to him!

'Merlin, Tony! I'm so sorry about that…'

Tony shrugged it off with a good-natured smile. 'I was worried about you, that was all.'

'I was very stressed,' she explained.

'Things better now?' Tony asked, seemingly genuine in his concern for her, which surprised Hermione. There was something about the strange glint in his eye which also intrigued her.

She couldn't help but wonder if Tony knew anything about the identity of Miguel's 'Red Star' liaison in London? After all, he had been working at Arcana throughout this entire period, and Arcana had been Jeroboam's only remaining London outpost.

'Things are… complicated,' Hermione said slowly, holding his gaze with her own. 'I was due to represent myself at a Ministry Tribunal… you might have heard…'

Tony nodded vigorously.

'… Well, I've been suspended, instead… pending departmental investigations.'

'Yes,' Tony muttered. 'Padma said.' He shook his head mournfully. 'It's not fair.'

Hermione sighed. 'How's Padma coping?'

Tony pulled a face. 'She's not. I shouldn't tell you this, but she's applied for a job elsewhere.'

'Oh. Really?' Hermione said, her heart sinking. 'Where?'

Tony folded his arms a little defensively. 'Sorry Hermione. But I'm honour-bound!' He glanced towards a door leading away from the public foyer. 'Look, do you fancy a cup of tea?'

XXX

Tony Goldstein's lab was markedly different to the clinical 'Muggle' style laboratory she first passed through. This was clearly an enclave of magic hidden deep inside the otherwise modern Arcana building. The room was comparatively dark and the walls were adorned with heavily decorated wooden paneling. On closer inspection, Hermione could see a number of magical symbols carved into the wood. She recognised most of them from her study of runes at Hogwarts, as markers of magical protection.

Whatever was being developed in this room was clearly of a very secretive nature.

Tony's desk was laden with a stack of well-worn books. Alongside this, was a range of shiny silver instruments and a small glass vial containing a spoonful of glowing blue liquid.

Hermione instantly winced. She recognised that blue… it was the type of blue she had seen embodied in the burning blue ball unleashed by Los Rojos in the morgue at Santa Maria and was similar to the skin colouring of Dark Flux victims. Its lurid glow also resembled the blue inside Draco's wound… the thought of this made her stomach lurch in anxiety.

Tony shot her a panicky glance. 'It's nothing to be scared of,' he assured her, realising she was staring, wide-eyed, at the blue liquid.

'What is it?' she hissed suspiciously.

'That's a distillation containing Gimlott's Disease,' Tony said in matter-of-fact tones. He picked the glass vial up, holding it between two fingers. The liquid smouldered and rolled within its glass container, illuminating Tony's face and his immediate surroundings with a ghostly blue light. Tony's face looked oddly pointed and saturnine, Hermione thought, his spectacles blazing bright.

'You know that Gimlott's is my speciality, don't you?' Tony said. 'I'm the world's leading authority.'

Hermione nodded dumbly. Now that she thought of it, yes, she could vaguely recall this.

Another memory – even more recent – now occurred to her.

In Santa Maria, Dolores had said that the blue colour associated with Dark Flux victims reminded her of her mother-in-law, who had died from Gimlott's Disease.

'I know very little about Gimlott's,' Hermione said. She watched Tony as he returned the glass vial to his desk and set about preparing a pot of steaming hot tea for them with the aid of his wand. He Accio-ed a tin of teabags from the desk of his neighbouring worker.

'You have to try this!' he smirked, brandishing a small grey teabag. 'It's a bush tea that my colleague, Binta, has introduced me to.' He grinned enthusiastically. 'It's phenomenal.'

'She won't mind?'

'Not at all,' Tony said.

Tony was right about the tea, Hermione thought. It was subtly flavoured and had a warm, soothing quality, yet was also remarkably refreshing.

Hermione instantly felt a lot more cheery. For a few, short minutes, the fear and panic constantly clawing at her insides, slightly ebbed.

'I guess you've never had reason to know much about Gimlott's,' Tony said. 'It doesn't affect witches like you.'

'Oh, yes. Half-bloods only,' Hermione said.

'Not just ANY half-bloods, Hermione,' Tony said, nodding sagely as he spoke. 'EPSILON half-bloods. Those half-bloods considered the most powerful in our society. Indeed, there is mounting evidence that Epsilon half-bloods are more powerful, even than the most powerful purebloods! Which remains a great embarrassment for the pureblood community,' Tony added with a sickly grin.

Hermione barely repressed a sneer. How she hated all this blood-talk…

'Of course, Gimlott's is pretty rare… but as it affects some of our most famous witches and wizards, there's been a fair amount of galleons chucked at it over the years… desperate competition to find a cure!'

'And are YOU going to be the first to find one?' Hermione asked, sharply aware of the faint tone of triumph which had snuck into Tony's voice. His eyes were shining with a peculiar brightness which she instantly recognised as boastful pride. Indeed, she had often worried that she herself had projected that same gloating look.

Tony shook his head. 'I can't tell you that, Hermione. As you know, this business has just been bought out by Gilgad Inc…'

'Ephraim Golowitz.'

Tony nodded. 'Some matters still need resolution… For now, this lab's in limbo.'

'So are you still working on Gimlott's Disease?'

'Of course. It's my life's work. But I'm also researching blood types… magical genomes… you're participating in the project yourself, remember?'

'Yes, that's right,' Hermione mumbled, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable that she was assisting such a project at all. She'd had her doubts, but had been talked out of them.

'I have to say, Tony,' she said hastily. 'I don't think I know anyone who's had Gimlott's.'

Tony laughed. 'Oh I bet you do! It's just that most sufferers tend to hide their symptoms…'

'Why's that?'

'Because they're often purebloods who didn't know they were actually half-bloods… or they've been lying about their true blood heritage all along.'

'You can't be serious!'

'It's true!' Tony said. 'There's often great shame associated with Gimlott's.' He leant closer to Hermione, lowering his voice. 'There's a pretty well-founded rumour that Lucius Malfoy has Gimlott's, for example.'

'Lucius! But the Malfoys are one of the most famous pureblood families in Britain!'

Tony sniggered into his tea, his face alive with malicious amusement. 'Yes… a fitting irony, don't you think?'

Hermione's heart was beating ever faster. 'What makes you think Lucius has Gimlott's?'

'He's been a recluse for some years now, but before he disappeared from public life, he had developed a bit of a reputation for having _lapses_.'

'Lapses? Whatever do you mean?' Hermione asked, burning with curiosity.

'Magical lapses… his magical abilities were clearly degenerating… there was huge speculation at the time, which must have been about seven or eight years ago. I'm amazed you never heard about it,' Tony said. He took a deep gulp of his bush tea, steaming up his spectacles as he drank.

'No, I – I generally ignore Malfoy news,' Hermione said, unable to suppress an inner pang.

Poor Draco, she thought. Just a week ago, she would have been jubilant to hear that Draco's life, his entire identity, bound up with all that arrogant family honour and self-satisfied snobbishness, was a sham. But now, all she could feel was genuine pity.

'So tell me Tony, when does Gimlott's usually manifest itself? What happens?'

'Gradual deterioration of magical faculties leading to an inability to perform basic magical tasks, a weakened immune system, huge fatigue, and madness,' Tony said in clinical tones. 'Usually in later life…'

'Is this condition amplified by using magic?' Hermione asking, recalling how Draco had been sick after casting a Healing Charm on her when they had been flying to Buenos Aires. But then, there had been his use of wandless magic at the Alvear Palace Hotel? The two things didn't tally.

'Oh yeah, for sure. There's a definite correlation between magic expended and symptoms, which is why Gimlotts is often associated with _DARKER _wizards.'

'You mean, dark magic is more _depleting_?'

'Pretty much,' Tony agreed. 'Ironically, though, Healers are also typical sufferers, because they have to constantly use powerful magic in their work.'

'How tragic,' Hermione muttered.

'You bet it is. I mean, it seems kind of fair that some old bastard like Lucius Malfoy should have a slow, lingering death…'

'So if you feel like this, Tony, why have you spent so much time and energy looking for a cure?' Hermione asked, barely able to disguise her irritation at Tony's rank hypocrisy.

A broad grin erupted onto Tony's face. 'The usual. Money. Finding a cure for Gimlott's has attracted very wealthy backers.'

'Including Saul Jeroboam.'

Tony nodded enthusiastically. 'For sure. Gimlott's is very much part of his pioneering research into the Epsilon allele. Jeroboam's been working in that area for a very long time. Over thirty years, I believe…'

'Is that when he was working with the Geneva Group?' Hermione asked, a little smug at having some 'inside track' on Jeroboam's past. She recalled Draco's account of how Jeroboam had once worked with Ephraim Golowitz – although that had been investigating Dark Flux…

Even as she thought this, she had the curious sensation that something at the back of her mind was falling into place… she could feel the jagged pieces of a puzzle gradually piecing together, but couldn't yet discern the whole picture.

'The Geneva Group?' Tony said. 'Yes, of course. Jeroboam was the founding member.'

'And the Geneva Group was studying Dark Flux, wasn't it?' Hermione continued, unable to suppress the hectoring tone in her voice. 'And Gimlott's is related to Dark Flux, isn't it, Tony?'

Tony supped his tea in quiet consternation, eyeing her thoughtfully over the brim of his tea-cup.

'In the sense that Gimlott's appears to be a condition whereby excessive magical force is gradually sapping the life of its victim…' he eventually said in slow, deliberate tones, picking his words carefully, 'then, YES, there is a similarity… but Dark Flux is a sudden, traumatic event. Gimlott's takes years to kill.'

'How many?'

'It varies,' he said, nursing his cup of tea. 'In Lucius Malfoy's case,' he said a little more pointedly, focusing his be-spectacled gaze on her face, 'I doubt he can last much longer. It's amazing how long he's held out already, although he's had the benefit of cutting edge experimental drug therapies - courtesy of his friends at Gilgad Inc,' he added snidely.

Of course, Hermione thought. Gilgad Inc was competing in the same market as Red Star and Arcana. As a particularly close friend to the Malfoys, Ephraim Golowitz must have proved invaluable.

'As for _Draco_,' Tony said suddenly, his gaze hardening as he spoke, prompting Hermione to blush heatedly, 'he's not in danger – not yet, anyway. As long as he steers clear of dark magic, he might even avoid his father's fate.'

Hermione swallowed hard, unable to tear her eyes away from Tony's incisive, intelligent face.

'But then again,' Tony continued blithely, 'the shame of knowing he wasn't actually a PUREBLOOD - or even a Malfoy - would be particularly aggravating for Draco, don't you think?' Tony snorted with sudden derisive laughter. 'Probably as bad as contracting Gimlott's, actually!'

Hermione could feel her heart sinking like a stone inside of her. Poor Draco.

Everything about his behavior: his reluctance to use magic, his flinching when she mentioned his grandfather Abraxas that time when they were in Patagonia… suddenly it all made much more sense. If indeed there _was _some 'dirty family secret', then Draco would feel it acutely.

'So, if you figured you might get Gimlott's Disease,' she said, 'it might be better to avoid using magic altogether?'

Tony nodded. 'It's been known.' He flashed her another disarmingly bright grin.

He was enjoying this far too much, Hermione thought. He'd hated Draco at school, and clearly still did.

Hermione hastily gulped back her tea.

'I'd better get going,' she gabbled.

'Of course,' Tony said, placing his now-empty cup on his desk.

They exited Tony's office and headed back towards the main lobby of Arcana, passing through the brightly lit Muggle labs. Tony seemed deep in thought.

'Actually, Hermione,' he said, just as she was about to leave, 'I hope you don't mind my asking this, but why did you come here?'

'To Arcana?'

'Yes.'

'I wanted to speak to Ephraim Golowitz.'

'I see.' His eyes flicked upwards, to a point beyond Hermione's shoulder. 'Well, it looks like you're in luck, then.'

Fast approaching was Ephraim Golowitz, tall, burly and handsome, flanked by Auror Tom Bennet, and a slight-looking, pale fellow with sleek black hair. Dawdling behind them was a tall, gangly woman with a lightly freckled face, cropped brown hair and, the moment she saw Hermione, a beaming smile. It was Tana McLaughlin – Ron's new partner.

In any other circumstance, Hermione would have been delighted to see her, but her priority was asking Ephraim if he had heard from Draco, which she realized she'd rather do without this particular audience in tow.

'Mrs Weasley!' Ephraim guffawed, slapping a large hand on her shoulder. 'What a pleasant surprise!'

He glanced towards Tony, a slightly quizzical expression on his face.

'Ah! I see you're here on a friendly visit.'

'Yes,' she said quickly, 'I came to see YOU, actually.'

Ephraim raised his eyebrows. 'Well, I have a little bit of business to finish up,' he said, casting a sidelong glance at Aurors Bennet and McLaughlin. 'A nasty case of suspected industrial espionage, I'm afraid – really, you can't trust anyone these days – but once I'm done, then it would be splendid to meet for a chat.'

Hermione smiled. 'It was just a few words I wanted, really… no big deal.'

Ephraim turned to the sleek young man standing beside him. 'Maybe Torquil here can help you instead?'

The sleek young man fixed Hermione with a dark, beady-eyed stare and extended his hand towards her in greeting. Hermione tentatively placed her hand in his. His grip was cold and slightly clammy.

'Torquil Haast,' he said in clipped tones. 'It's a great pleasure to finally meet you properly, Mrs Weasley.'

'I was wondering if you'd had any news,' Hermione said in hushed tones. 'About a mutual friend of ours,' she said, leaning towards him.

Torquil steered her away from Ephraim and the Aurors who were heading deeper into the building. 'Not a dickie bird,' he said in worried tones. 'I was rather hoping YOU had news actually.'

Hermione shook her head vigorously. 'He was heading back to Patagonia when I last saw him.'

Torquil frowned. 'Why the hell did he do that?' he asked.

Hermione opened her mouth to explain more, but then thought better of it. There was something about the eager, inquisitive look on Torquil Haast's face which she found hard to trust.

Hermione shrugged. 'I don't really know,' she muttered. 'One of his whims…'

As she spoke, she could feel the penetrating gaze of Tony Goldstein burning into her, almost as though he was trying to lip-read.

'Well, Mrs Weasley,' Torquil said, prompting her from her momentary reverie. 'Here's my card. Please contact me the instant you hear from him.' He leaned closer. 'We're getting a little bit worried about him actually,' he said in deep, lugubrious tones. 'Rather fearing he might have met a sticky end.'

A frisson of fear careened through Hermione.

'Of course,' she said, fingering Torquil's card. 'I'm sure he'll show up soon enough,' she added with a bright smile.

'Let's hope so, Mrs Weasley,' Torquil said, an earnest expression on his face. 'Let's hope so.'

CHAPTER TRACKS: **THE ORANGE THEME (Moonmans OJ Mix) **by** CYGNUS X**

**SYMPHONY No.7 in A MAJOR– 2****nd**** MOVEMENT (Allegretto) **by **BEETHOVEN**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to Apurva & Lou.


	19. The Woundless Air

_**A fateful encounter with a familiar face from Argentina, a surprise meeting with an old friend, Hermione makes an enemy, and exactly what has happened to Draco? Hermione finds out...**_

**19. The Woundless Air **

There was no mistaking the tetchy tone of Narcissa Malfoy's latest reply to Hermione's persistent requests for news about Draco.

_Dear Hermione Weasley, _

_Nothing has changed since yesterday. Draco is still away on business. While I understand that you have a very important Ministry matter to discuss with him, please trust that I will contact you the moment he returns home. I have considerable daily correspondence to keep up with, and can't always rely on having an Owl at my convenience to dispatch to Devon._

_May I suggest you try to send an Owl directly to Draco? _

_Best Regards,_

_Narcissa Malfoy_

Hermione had already tried that. 'Grumio,' their owl, had got lost for three days, and had developed a nervous 'bark' since returning home. Ron had immediately banned her from trying again.

'This is getting silly,' he then groaned, as she tried for the umpteenth time to send Draco a message via her Patronus. For some reason, the damn spell wouldn't work. It was driving her crazy. 'Has it occurred to you?' Ron continued, 'that Draco's probably having a right rollicking adventure, and doesn't want to be disturbed.'

'He's ill, Ron! He needs a mediwizard.'

'And you think he hasn't worked that out for himself? He's a big boy, Hermione. He doesn't need you badgering him.'

'He might be dead,' Hermione argued, unable to extinguish the anguish in her voice.

'Since when did _you_ care?' Ron said in cutting tones.

But she _did _care. And the longer he stayed in Argentina, the guiltier she felt, that she'd abandoned Draco to deal with the hopeless fiasco they'd found themselves in, alone.

Hermione decided to ask the Department of International Magic Cooperation, to alert the Argentine authorities to what had been going on. Maybe that would help smooth matters for Draco…

This meant venturing into the Ministry of Magic, much to Ron and his family's surprise. The Weasleys assumed her low spirits were the result of her Ministry suspension, so out of sensitivity to 'poor Hermione', Arthur and Molly had forbidden_ any_ mention of the Ministry at The Burrow, which made for some surreally circuitous conversations.

Truth be told, Hermione hankered for a heated debate on the efficacy and motives behind Silas Witchell's latest tranche of 'New Broom' policies, but there was zero conversation to be had during her seven-hour wait in an isolated waiting room, at the Department of International Magic Cooperation. Luckily, she'd brought an armful of books to keep her occupied.

She finally got to speak to a Second Assistant Liaison Officer for South America. She urged him to report the murders of Senor Canaro in Buenos Aires and Jonas Arbuthnot in Santa Maria, describing what she had seen. He point blank refused to hear about Miguel Culebra, as that was 'Muggle business.'

An owl arrived some days later with a message from the Ministry. Apparently, there were no records of a Senor Canaro having ever existed in Buenos Aires. As for Jonas Arbuthnot, the Argentine Ministry of Magic had certified his official cause of death as food poisoning.

Hermione was outraged. Had the Ministry even bothered to properly investigate, or was this some kind of cover-up?

But what could she do?

Argentina felt so far away – not just geographically – but increasingly, as a 'reality'. It was as though everything that had happened to her there, was melting away; a violent splash of colour receding into grey.

An ugly truth was dawning on her. Despite her love for Ron and her family, and the safe, happy life they'd built together, her few days with Draco in Argentina, had awakened something buried deep inside of her.

To her private shame, she often found herself reliving in her mind, in explicit detail, the fear and excitement of all she had experienced.

Even more disturbing, was how her feelings towards Draco had changed so dramatically. She simply couldn't deny their powerful physical connection, and the gaping emotional void she now felt in his absence.

She was haunted by the memory of dancing with him at Villa Ofelia, on a sticky, summer's night; the sensation of his hard, lean body pressed against her and the overwrought maelstrom of feeling he'd evoked in her. How she'd hated him!

Neither could she stop thinking about the time she'd kissed him… had it been curiosity or lust or just an overflow of feeling that had built up between them? She wasn't sure. All that remained, was the persistent, throbbing memory of the heat of his mouth on hers, the harsh, guttural sound of his breathing, and the fierce white glow that had flared inside of her.

She wasn't sure she'd ever felt that before.

All too often, she found herself lying sleepless in bed next to Ron, moaning in frustration into her pillow, worrying that she might never feel something like that again.

What if this was it? What if this was the sum of her life's experiences? A long, slow crawl into 'contented' oblivion…

It didn't help that Ron was so often away from home, at a time when she desperately needed to remember why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place. However, Ron's investigations into corruption in Quidditch led him and his Auror-partner Tana McLaughlin, from Latvia to Turkey then to Germany.

He didn't think he'd make it home until Christmas.

This meant Hermione had to attend the Christmas Nativity Play at St Botolph's on her own, for the first time since Rose had started school. Molly had offered to come in Ron's place, but was stuck at home making a huge vat of Pepperup Potion for George and his family; all of whom seemed to be suffering seasonal snivels and aches of one sort or another, while Roxanne had a suspected case of Mumblemumps.

Hermione was looking forward to the play. Rose was playing an angel, sporting a huge pair of gossamer wings, while Hugo had been proudly practising his Baa-s for days, in preparation for his role as a sheep.

It was a crisp, winter's afternoon. Hermione relished the chill air flushing her cheeks as she set off for a bracing walk into the heart of St Ottery Catchpole. She spotted a gaggle of local mums, likely headed to the school play, clogging the path ahead, and slowed her pace a little. She'd learned from bitter experience to avoid too much interaction, and was sharply aware that the Weasleys were considered 'nice' but kind of 'hokey'. There were even rumours they belonged to a religious sect.

One particular lady, some twenty feet or so ahead, seemed a little out of place, and was actually walking away from the school and towards Hermione instead. She was notably taller and more erect in stature than the huddle of Muggle mums she swept imperiously past. She had a glorious mane of golden hair, which seemed to irradiate her immediate environs.

Hermione froze. There could be only one reason for Sylvestra Golowitz to come visiting, and that was news about Draco. Probably bad news.

Hermione didn't immediately notice the striking figure of Ephraim Golowitz extricate himself from the admiring glances of the pack of Mums, who had slowed when he passed. He fast approached, a broad smile etched on his bronzed face. Was that a glamour? Hermione wondered. Or simply a side effect of the robust health and dynamic energy that Ephraim seemed to emanate, cowing all around him.

'Mrs Weasley!' he hollered in jocular greeting. 'Just the person we wanted to see!' His deep, burnished American accent seemed to melt the cold, winter's air between them.

'Mr Golowitz…Sylvestra. What a nice surprise,' Hermione said, hoping to conceal any trace of trepidation with a polite smile.

'We'd like a little chat with you,' Ephraim beamed.

'A _chat_? Yes - yes, of course. Unfortunately, now's not a good time. I'm actually on my way somewhere,' Hermione gabbled, feeling oddly diminished and silly in their presence.

'Ah, yes! To see young Rose and Hugo _perform_,' Ephraim said, his eyes gleaming. Hermione cast him a swift, piercing look. How could he possibly know such a thing?

Ephraim burst into loud, raucous laughter. 'Don't fret Mrs Weasley. We're not spying on you,' he chortled. 'Are we Sylvestra?'

'We've been walking through the village. Such a pretty place! And we couldn't avoid the gathering at the school gates,' Sylvestra explained. 'It was impossible _not_ to know that today's the school play.'

'So don't get yourself in a tizzy, Mrs Weasley. We won't make you late, we promise.'

'And don't worry, this isn't about Draco either,' Sylvestra added brightly.

'Oh, I wasn't worried about _that_…' Hermione asserted. 'Just – just wanting to get to the school play on time, that's all.'

Sylvestra smiled in response, her unblinking gaze fixed firmly on Hermione's face. Hermione instantly tried to blank her mind, to focus on the rustle and creak of the trees being harried by a suddenly stiff winter breeze…on the minutiae of the walk from here, close to her house, to the school…icily aware that she was in the presence of a highly skilled Legilimens.

'Well, let's walk with you,' Ephraim said, offering her his arm for support, as they strode towards the school.

'We'd be relieved to hear from Draco, of course we would,' Ephraim sighed, 'but we trust he's sensible enough to steer clear of trouble.'

'You realise he planned to return to Patagonia?' Hermione said.

'Yes. Draco sent us some very interesting reports concerning your _adventures _there.' He glanced at Hermione beside him. 'Well, less adventures, more _nightmares _really, wouldn't you agree Hermione?'

Hermione shivered involuntarily. The cerulean blue of Ephraim's eyes seemed to fill her mind as he spoke.

'I would even venture to say, Hermione, that what you and Draco witnessed, could be termed crimes against humanity.'

'If this Dark Flux outbreak turns out to be a man-made _attack_, then yes, that could most certainly be seen as -'

'I refer to the depraved murders committed by these _Rojos_; these followers of Jeroboam,' Ephraim interrupted, in firm, deliberate tones. 'Such crimes demand public exposure.'

'The Argentinian authorities are denying that any murders have actually taken place, Mr Golowitz,' Hermione snapped. 'You should address your concerns to them!'

'Ministry investigations are notoriously lazy,' Ephraim said in an offhand manner. 'What is needed, Hermione, is someone with a sharp legal mind and a fine reputation – someone like _you_ - to openly accuse Saul Jeroboam in the British Wizengamot. After all, we both know the true extent of his murderous ambitions, don't we?'

'No, Mr Golowitz. I can't honestly say we do,' Hermione countered, noting in growing exasperation, that the crowd of parents who had been milling outside the school, were now streaming rapidly through the gates.

'Are you sure about that?' Ephraim slapped one large, warm hand on Hermione's shoulder, tilting her chin upwards with the other, so that she was meeting his earnest, blue-eyed gaze.

'Please Mr Golowitz!' Hermione protested, trying to wriggle free from his grasp. 'The Ministry won't take me seriously, unless I have compelling, clear-cut evidence.'

Ephraim shook his head regretfully, dropping his hand from Hermione's chin. She noticed how the bold ruby ring on his left hand glinted in the pale winter sunshine.

'But you have your mind, Hermione; your _memories_.'

'A single person's unverified 'memory' is no longer admissible as objective proof in a criminal prosecution. That was one of the major stipulations in Kingsley Shacklebolt's Great Reform Bill, after the Second Wizarding War,' Hermione said tartly.

'But exceptions can be made…'

'Not by me, Mr Golowitz. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not exactly the Ministry's favourite person these days.'

'Yes, that is very, very wrong, quite incomprehensible. Even so, Hermione, I feel certain that Minister Witchell would be extremely keen to learn the truth about Jeroboam. You should consider the potential rewards that might come your way if you were to speak out.'

'You mean I might get my old job back?' Hermione said in acerbic tones.

'Don't underestimate your own value,' Ephraim said silkily. 'You have a formidable reputation. People listen to you. I have absolutely no doubt you could mount a full-scale international prosecution against Jeroboam if you put your mind to it.'

Hermione desperately fought off the dark suspicions crowding her mind. Was it Ephraim's fault that she'd been suspended from her job in the first place? After all, Ephraim was a powerful man, with friends in high places.

'I'd rather wait for Draco to come back,' she said, changing tack and smiling sweetly, suddenly aware of Sylvestra's penetrating stare on her face. 'I've no doubt, with_ his_ backing, the Wizengamot would take a case against Jeroboam much more seriously.'

Ephraim opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it.

He abruptly switched his attention to St Botolph's.

'What a charming little place that is, don't you think Sylvestra? Such a delightful, old-fashioned architectural style.'

'Sure is quaint,' Sylvestra agreed. 'Is it usual, in _this _country, to send young witches and wizards to Muggle School?'

'Not very,' Hermione said.

The school appeared ominously silent and still. Clearly the audience had taken their seats and were waiting for the performance to begin. Everyone but herself, Hermione thought bitterly.

'I see. So you're something of a radical!' Ephraim proclaimed heartily. 'So tell me, Hermione, in your estimation, how many children would normally attend a cute little village school like this? One hundred? One hundred and fifty?'

'I really don't know,' Hermione said, exasperated.

'All Muggles?' Ephraim asked coolly. 'Apart from Rose and Hugo of course.'

'Yes. All Muggles. Look, I think the play's started. I really need to get going.'

'Of course,' Ephraim said. He flashed her a brilliant smile and squeezed her shoulder with his hand. 'Really good to see you again, Hermione. Keep in touch.'

'Come and have tea sometime,' Sylvestra said cheerily.

'I'd love to,' Hermione lied.

Two sharp cracks later and they had vanished from sight. Hermione instantly scanned the area for onlookers, but luckily there didn't seem to be anybody around.

But of course not. Everybody else was indoors watching the damned play, she thought, head throbbing furiously. She marched purposefully into the school playground. How dare they? How dare _she_? Sneaking into her mind like that.

And Ephraim! What a pompous, blackmailing _shitbag_, trying to sucker her into his personal vendetta with Saul Jeroboam…

A rising sense of panic mingled with a stinging pang of betrayal bubbled up inside of her.

Had this always been Draco's true motive for recruiting Ron and herself? Not to investigate what caused Dark Flux; but to set up Jeroboam?

A burst of shrill, tremulous voices breaking into song, roused her from her anguished reverie.

The play had started, without her.

XXX

Boxing Day was to be spent with The Pickles, much to Ron's displeasure. He was hugely fond of Hermione's parents, Bob and Jean, but was discomforted by too much Muggle company; most especially Hermione's Uncle Derek and Aunt Rita.

Rita was large and outspoken with a loud, shrieking laugh. She was also intensely neurotic. Lately, she'd become convinced that quiet Mr Hamid at number 47, was a member of an Islamic extremist terrorist cell, (based on visits from his two young nephews), planning action, _here_, in their own particular neighbourhood. Hermione had strenuously argued that Borehamwood was a most unlikely terrorist target, adding that Mr Hamid had always been a model neighbour – pleasant, smiling, co-operative. Despite this, Rita continued to sully his name to anyone who would listen.

Uncle Derek was a different kettle of fish altogether. He was the elder brother of Hermione's mum, but much more taciturn and remote. A man of awkward silences. Despite this, Hermione was fond of him. He was a constant family fixture, soft slippered in a beige cardigan and horn-rimmed spectacles, always with a kindly 'Would you like some tea, love?' so that he could slip off to the kitchen, rather than struggle to make conversation.

Today, Uncle Derek was even more subdued than usual. He was notably thin, frail and stooped, after a prolonged and intense bout of chemotherapy. He was being treated for bowel cancer.

Derek and Rita's only child Gwen, and her seven year old son Alfred, had moved into their rather boxy semi-detached house to help out. This meant their pocket-handkerchief sized living room was awash with plastic robot toys and colourful chunks of Lego. Alfred had commandeered the TV. He was rooted to a spot on the taupe carpet some thirty centimetres or so from the screen, clutching a video game console. His latest obsession, Gwen explained wearily, was _Space Force 7_; a Shoot 'Em Up game based on a popular TV show. Alfred was in total disbelief that Rose and Hugo had never seen it. Luckily, Alfred had received the latest DVD box set for Christmas, and insisted on Rose and Hugo watching it _all_ before they went home.

'That'll keep them busy,' Gwen said, sighing in relief.

Aunt Rita rolled her eyes dramatically. 'Not that bloody awful space malarkey again! All this telly; it'll rot their brains you know!'

'Don't be silly Mum,' Gwen groused, clearly sick of their current living arrangements already.

'There's scientific proofs you know, that all this shooting and murder and whatnot, dangerously raises their cortisone levels!'

'_Cortisol_,' Hermione's Dad interjected gently.

'That's what I said, Bob,' Rita remonstrated. '_Cortisone_.'

Bob opened his mouth to correct her, but then thought better of it.

Uncle Derek levered himself up slowly from an armchair, tucked into the corner of the room, next to the Christmas tree.

'Would anyone like a cup of tea?' he asked. His hands trembled as he spoke.

'Let me help you,' Jean said, springing up from the sofa. She hooked her arm affectionately around her brother's waist, to guide him into the kitchen.

Hermione followed.

XXX

Once Uncle Derek had taken a tray of teas back to the living room and they were finally alone, Hermione confessed to her Mum that she was having a few problems at work, and that she'd been temporarily suspended.

Jean looked shocked. '_You_? Suspended? Whatever for?'

'Oh, it's just some silly nonsense. Nothing I can't handle,' Hermione said in a tone of forced jollity, instantly regretting her moment of unguarded honesty.

'Is someone bothering you, Hermione? Like – like one of those harassment cases you're always hearing about,' Jean said, tightly pursing her lips.

Hermione pondered a moment. In a way that was precisely what it was; just not the kind of harassment her mother was meaning.

'No, Mum, nothing like that.' She gave her mother a reassuring smile. 'I'll be fine. Promise.'

It didn't work. Jean's brow was puckered into an anxious frown, and her kindly hazel eyes were boring into her daughter's face, searching for clues.

'Everything's okay with Ron, isn't it?' Jean asked, lowering her voice.

Hermione reddened. 'But of course.'

'You sure?'

'Mummy,' came Rose's plaintive voice from the kitchen doorway. 'When are we going home?'

'Aren't you enjoying your TV show?'

Rose vigorously shook her red hair so that it all but coated her face. 'Boring,' she mumbled peevishly.

'Well, the boys are enjoying it dearie,' Jean said kindly. And indeed they were. Alfred and Hugo were whooping wildly in the other room, firing at each other with toy 'Galinkas', the weapon of choice on _Space Force 7_.

'Why don't you ask Grandad to do a puzzle with you?' Hermione said brightly.

Bob was only too happy to oblige, having found conversation with his son-in-law a little stilted after discussing today's football fixtures. Little did he know that Ron had spent a good hour that same morning, practising the names of all the Premiership football teams by rote, so that he could have this conversation.

Bob and Rose quietly settled into a 1000-piece puzzle depicting an enchanted castle, which Hermione thought bore an uncanny resemblance to Hogwarts.

Hermione glanced at her uncle, who appeared to be snoozing in his armchair, oblivious. How he could sleep at all defied belief, as Gwen yelled at Alfred for thwacking poor Hugo on the head with his Galinka.

Hugo, however, was dead-set on revenge, and swung his Galinka into the elder boy's face with as much force as his burly little body could muster. A spurt of crimson blood exploded from Alfred's nose, splattering his chin.

The boy was so shocked, he forgot to cry, leaving that honour to Hugo, who collapsed into loud, ranting wails, horrified at what he had done. Hermione wrapped him tightly in her arms, while Gwen whisked Alfred to the bathroom.

'What's happened?' Rita cried. 'Has World War Three broken out?'

'Not quite,' Ron muttered under his breath, clearly wishing he was anywhere but here.

'That was very, very naughty,' Hermione hissed, spinning Hugo round to face her.

'He was being _attacked_,' Ron argued. He'd never liked Alfred.

'That's no excuse!' Hermione foisted Hugo into Ron's care, and went to check on Alfred, who was bawling in the bathroom.

'Hold still,' begged his mother, brandishing a tube of 'Herb Healing' ointment. 'This will make you feel better. Like magic!'

Hermione smiled at the irony.

'There's a kids' painkiller in the medical cabinet, Hermione. Do you mind grabbing it for me?' Gwen asked, rubbing luminous green salve on Alfred's nose, which was shiny red, but now clean of blood.

Yet another Herb Healing product, Hermione noted. In fact, there were lots of them, by the looks of it: a nasal spray for sinusitis, a children's strawberry-flavoured toothpaste, a cleaning gel, and an aromatherapy oil to enhance 'Wellbeing.'

She scanned the bottle containing a 'natural, fast-acting remedy for aches and pains of all kinds,' featuring a picture on the front of a grinning blonde kid with a toothy smile. He reminded her of the studio portrait of Scorpius in Katya's study.

'Hand it over,' Gwen said irritably.

There was an insistent buzzing in Hermione's jeans pocket. It was Draco's mobile phone, which she'd managed to fire into life by charging up the battery, the moment she'd arrived.

'I've got to take this,' she said urgently.

It wasn't Draco. It was a long line of text messages from Henrik Thyssen instead, dating from a week ago to that same morning – all downloading at once.

Henrik planned to be in town on the 26th. That was _today_. Could they meet at The Porcupine, on Charing Cross Road, at 4pm?

Just yards from Diagon Alley, Hermione thought.

Ron could meet him. In fact, Ron really_ should_ meet him, she thought.

XXX

'Well, that was a pathetic excuse for getting out of the house. You do realize it's Boxing Day, don't you?' Hermione said in acid tones. 'The banks are closed.'

'_Muggl_e banks might be closed, but not Gringotts,' Ron said crankily, grimacing at the rain. He patted his trouser pocket. 'Anyway, I really _do_ have business at the bank! I've got a bonus to pay into our vault.'

'A bonus? That's great Ron!' Hermione smiled, although she couldn't help but think that Ron's pocket didn't exactly look over-stuffed with galleons. Maybe he had an extendable money-pouch tucked in there?

Hermione asked Ron to also get some Muggle cash from Gringotts. They'd need it with Henrik.

'Who's this Henrik chap again?'

'The Danish journalist we met in Patagonia. He's useful, Ron. We should plug him for information.'

As soon as they were safely out of sight of the Pickles' pebble-dashed semi, they Apparated.

XXX

After Gringotts, they headed to The Leaky Cauldron. The landlady, Hannah Abbott, an old acquaintance from Hogwarts, told them that Harry Potter had been in earlier.

'He says he wants to see you. Urgent business apparently!' she said to Hermione.

'Damn,' Ron grumbled. 'Shame we missed him. Hmmm. I wonder if this _urgent business_ was what kept him in Paris yesterday? Mum was so sad he couldn't make it for dinner.' He eyed Hermione curiously. 'Wonder what he wants with _you_?'

'I am his _friend_ you know!' Hermione retorted. 'Anyway, we should go and meet… you know…' she muttered, aware that Hannah was eavesdropping.

Ron was counting sickles for a butterbeer. 'There's no time for that,' Hermione said irritably. Ron scowled, and instead dropped the coins into a gaudy china moneybox shaped like a Russian doll, which was sitting on top of the counter, beside a sign inviting donations to the Romanian Longhorn Preservation Fund.

'Alright then,' he grunted. 'Hey, Hannah! If Harry comes back in, tell him to stay put, will you?'

XXX

Thankfully, in view of the persistent rain, The Porcupine was directly across the street from the inconspicuous entrance to The Leaky Cauldron.

Cars and taxis sloshed filthy brown puddle water onto them, as they waited on the pavement outside the pub, huddled under an umbrella which Hermione had surreptitiously transfigured from a pencil in her handbag.

The Porcupine consisted of one single curving bar and a noisy, flashing fruit machine.

'We might as well go inside and grab a beer while we wait,' Ron said huffily. 'You got that Muggle money on you?'

Hermione fished a five-pound note out of her purse and offered it to Ron. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

'I'd rather you did it.'

'Yes, I know you would, Ronald Weasley. But practice makes perfect.'

'But when do I ever need to use Muggle money?' he whined.

'Let's see. How about right _now_?'

Ron ducked indoors, out of the rain.

A demanding squawk to her left drew Hermione's attention. She instantly jumped, heart pumping violently.

'What the hell?' she gasped, recoiling at the rush of dark, black wings, speeding into the sky and out of sight. Large black birds were pretty much the last thing she wanted to encounter after her experiences in Patagonia. Her eyes were drawn to a small blue ball of screwed up paper beside her on the pavement. She bent down, grabbing the paper with trembling fingers.

_Please_ be from Draco, she silently pleaded as she opened the note, and then instantly felt guilty when she saw that it was from Harry instead. He confirmed what Hannah Abbott had already told her; that he would be at The Leaky Cauldron late that afternoon, once he'd wrapped up some work at the International Magical Office of Law at the Ministry.

'_Something very strange has happened. We need to talk.'_

About what? Hermione wondered, an odd, curdling nervousness coiling deep inside of her.

She quickly scanned the streets for a sign of Henrik. Maybe he hadn't come after all. She'd probably replied to his text too late. She checked her watch. Already half past four.

She was torn. Should she wait a little longer? Or head to The Leaky Cauldron, where it was warm, dry and welcoming, to hopefully see Harry?

Muggles in shiny, waterproof clothing, clutching umbrellas of varying shape and size, were dashing past. The driving rain was gaining strength and power.

'Ron!' she yelped, waving the note. Ron was waiting to be served.

Ron reluctantly joined her outside. He jostled for room under her umbrella, which she covertly expanded an inch or two, to encompass them more comfortably.

'What about this Henrik guy?'

'Forget him for now. We need to see Harry.'

XXX

Ron eagerly downed a Butterbeer, a slow smile of satisfaction spreading across his face.

'Well, it can't have been that important,' Hermione said grumpily, 'or he'd be here.'

'He's probably got held up. You know what it's like at the Ministry. You pop in for two minutes for some tiny little errand, and wind up stuck there for two hours instead.'

Hermione frowned deeply.

Ron winced. 'Oops. Sorry Hermione. Could have been a little more sensitive there.'

Hermione stood up with a heavy sigh, surprising Ron. 'It's no good,' she breathed. 'I can't just sit around here waiting. I've got to _do_ something,'

'Why you so nervous?'

'I don't know.' Except she did. She was filled with sickly dread. She had a feeling that this was about Draco.

'Look Ron, there's a little Muggle shop close by which sells comic books. I thought of getting a couple for the kids,' she said.

'Good idea,' Ron said, swigging his Butterbeer. 'Hey! See if they've got anything on that Muggle outer space stuff that Hugo was watching on the tellybox.'

'Television, Ron,' she said fondly.

'Yeah, that's what I said.'

XXX

The rain had eased, but Hermione didn't fancy dawdling. She jogged down Great Newport Street, heading away from Charing Cross Road, and then turned right towards St Martin's Lane. Here, a large white van was reversing into a tight parking spot and was jutting out at an awkward angle, slap bang in the middle of the road. A long line of cars honked their disapproval in discordant clamorous tones.

Hermione trotted rapidly past the logjam, then swung right into a quiet pedestrian alleyway, crammed with antiquarian bookshops. Instantly, the sounds of the street dissipated. Only the determined pit pat of raindrops and the slapping of her footsteps on shiny, wet flagstones remained. She paused to gaze at the comic books arranged in the lead-latticed windows of the 'Comic Shop' and smiled.

Sure enough, there it was on display. _Space Force 7_: The Original Comic Book Series. She'd planned to buy an old illustrated comic book of _Scaramouche _for Rose, having spotted one here before, sweeping her into nostalgic pining for her own childhood. It was only fair that Hugo had something to enjoy as well.

She gazed at the cover page for _Space Force 7_. The fierce-looking hero was armed with a Galinka; a squat, gun-like object, with topside buttons arranged close to the grip, for easy firing access.

Funny, she thought, it looked exactly like Jeroboam's Dark Flux scanner. Maybe Jeroboam was a secret _Space Force 7_ fan and had actually modelled it on the Galinka? Unless… but no. That was too horrible to even contemplate.

She was so lost in thought she didn't notice the flurry of fast approaching footfalls, and was jolted into reality by a hard object jabbing into her side. A strong, Macintoshed arm encircled her, pulling her close. It was a tall, stocky man - broader than Draco, she immediately thought with a pang of disappointment – and his stubbly chin was scratching her cheek.

'Looks familiar, huh?' Henrik said in grating tones. He prodded her with what she feared might be a gun.

'Expelliarmus!' she shrieked, flinging open her arms, forcing Henrik to stumble backwards and crash onto the sodden pavement. The gun slipped from his grasp and spun out of reach.

Hermione muttered an Accio, and snatched the gun.

It was lighter than she thought it should be, and plasticky. She turned it over and over in her hands, a puzzled expression on her face. But of course, it was the spitting image of the Galinka from _Space Force 7_.

And yes, it was also an exact replica of the scanner.

'This is a toy,' she spluttered.

Henrik was staring at her, eyes round in wonder. 'How did you do that? That was _amazing_?'

Hermione bridled with irritation. Really, she'd done something very stupid, even if it _was _instinctive self-defence she thought sullenly. But there was no time to dwell on it. She had to behave like nothing out the ordinary had happened… Persuade Henrik he was suffering some kind of self-delusion, and then quietly obliviate him as fast as her wand would let her.

'You threatened me with a toy gun!' she spat furiously, sneering at the blonde Dane crumpled on the wet pavement before her.

'You made the gun fly!'

'You shouldn't jump up on people like that!'

'You talk to birds!'

'I could have really hurt you!'

'You walk through walls and magic fucking umbrellas from nowhere!'

'I what?' Hermione screeched. 'What are you talking about?'

The guilty look on his face said it all.

'You were watching me?'

Henrik grunted in reply, levering himself off the ground. 'I didn't know who the ginger guy was. You could be fucking CIA, for all I know.'

'CIA?' Hermione laughed.

Henrik nodded vigorously. 'Yup. That or some freaky voodoo chick.' He shook his head in disbelief. 'I honestly don't know what's worse.'

Hermione pursed her lips tightly. 'You're deranged, Mr Thyssen.'

'I'm weirded out, that's all,' Henrik argued, his thick blonde stubble bristling, blue eyes flashing. His rich warm tan appeared grey and pallid, in this cold, wintry light.

'Look,' Henrik continued. 'Is there somewhere we can go? Get out of this goddammed shitty weather.'

'I've got another appointment, so it'll have to be quick,' Hermione said haughtily. 'We can talk in here,' she said, gesturing towards the comic book shop.

XXX

'I think you should know, Mr Thyssen, that our people couldn't find anything about you; no by-lines, no personal data… it's like you don't exist,' Hermione whispered. They were huddled behind a magazine rack by the shop window, hoping not to attract the shopkeeper's attention. Hermione considered casting a covert Muffliato, but couldn't risk performing magic in front of Henrik again.

'I have numerous aliases, Hermione. I prefer to keep a low profile,' Henrik grinned amiably. 'You see, I've pissed off a lot of very powerful folks in my time; mainly drugs, gas, mining and chemical conglomerates.'

'Accusing them of poisoning the population?'

Henrik shrugged. 'Yeah… Pretty much that. So I take sensible precautions. Look. Listen up. I've done my research. You seem like a nice person. Are you sure you know what - or _who_ you're mixed up with?'

'I take it you're referring to Mr - I mean - Professor Malfoy?'

Henrik snorted with laughter. 'Yeah, your Professor who has absolutely no connection whatsoever with Oxford University.'

Hermione grabbed a comic book off the magazine stand they were hiding behind, unwilling to meet Henrik's eye.

'Some girls might find a guy like that attractive. You know, fall for his lies. But _you_ seem cannier than that.'

Hermione felt a rosy warmth of embarrassment suffuse her cheeks. She kept her face averted from Henrik's searching gaze, blindly perusing the contents of her comic book.

Henrik stepped closer.

'Your Draco Malfoy has zero academic credentials. He works for a world-renowned OTC pharmaceuticals manufacturer called Herb Healing. His company is now owned by Gilgad Inc, a multinational conglomerate specialising in manufacturing vaccines - amongst other things - with a reputation for some rather nasty scientific research.'

Hermione dared to look at Henrik now, and was struck by the seriousness of his expression. 'There's some scary shit attached to that company, believe me.'

'Why should I take anything you say seriously? You're just a paranoid conspiracy theorist,' Hermione sniffed. 'I'm sure everything looks suspicious to you.'

Henrik vehemently shook his head. 'It _is _suspicious. Either that or the most damnable bloody coincidence, that most of the recent mass deaths resulting in _blue bodies_…' he paused, lowering his tone to a barely audible hiss, 'occurred close to a _Gilgad_ research centre.'

'There was no facility of any kind belonging to Gilgad or Herb Healing in Santa Maria, Mr Thyssen, I can assure you,' Hermione replied in a strong, firm voice, although her hand holding the comic book was trembling. 'And seeing as you've been there yourself, and saw the town for what it is, I'm surprised you could make such a suggestion.'

'Okay, not exactly in Santa Maria, but close enough, close to El Calafate.'

El Calafate, where Senor Asusto lived…. 'And how do you know this?'

Henrik cackled. 'Like I said, my own investigations. None of this can be found on Gilgad's corporate website, that's for sure.' He paused, eyes twinkling. 'After meeting yourself and Mr Malfoy, I decided to delay my little trip to Gabon. I made a few enquiries – which is when I found that _Professor _Malfoy was not quite who he said he was -'

'- Which is why you texted me that same day.'

Henrik nodded. 'The next morning I returned to El Calafate. I soon found that Herb Healing had a distribution office in town.'

'That's hardly surprising. It's a major household brand.'

'I quite agree. Though it's perhaps a _little_ bizarre, seeing as deepest, darkest Patagonia's pretty damned remote from any real population centre, but we'll let that one go… especially since I made a far more crucial discovery.' Henrik paused, ensuring Hermione was suitably attentive. 'I then discovered that Gilgad Inc had a top-secret research laboratory some forty-five kilometres from El Calafate, tucked away in a disused estancia close to Puerto Bandera, on the shores of Lago Argentina.'

'You sure?'

'Absolutely. I went there myself. And believe me, having such a high-tech, high security establishment like that, in such a desolate place, means you definitely have something to hide! Puerto Bandera's little more than a stop-off point for tourists visiting the Uppsala Glacier.'

'Did you manage to get in? Have a look around?'

Henrik snorted with loud laughter. 'You've got to be kidding, right? The place is like fucking Fort Knox.'

Why didn't Draco know about this? Hermione wondered solemnly.

'So this got me delving deeper, Henrik continued. 'I found out they've got labs or facilities of some kind in Vietnam, Egypt, New Zealand and Lvov, in The Ukraine, otherwise known as this _Zametsky_, that your colleague called it. And as you know, there have been mass death incidents in all of these places, over the past two years.'

Hermione prickled with nervous curiosity, accompanied by a sickly feeling.

'There's plenty more research facilities than that of course,' Henrik said, reaching for a sheet of A4 paper scrunched into his coat's inner breast pocket. He pulled it out with a loud crackling rustle, and presented it to Hermione. 'See...' he said, jabbing at a long list of place-names scrawled in thin, blue biro down the length of the page.

It was hardly scientific-looking, Hermione thought warily, but even so, she couldn't help feeling that there was something honest about Henrik's demeanour.

She quickly scanned the list. It was as Henrik said, but there were also facilities in Thailand, the USA, Spain, Israel and – even closer to home – England.

'Reads like a hit list, doesn't it?' Henrik said in fatalistic tones.

'That's assuming Gilgad's involved of course,' Hermione said primly. 'This doesn't count as hard evidence.' However, even as she spoke, a cold sense of dismay churned through her. If Gilgad was indeed involved in propagating Dark Flux, then that probably meant Draco too.

After all, Draco liked and praised Ephraim Golowitz. His business, his house, his whole life was in hock to Ephraim… Surely this meant he would be up to his eyeballs, in any crazed, genocidal scheme his father-in-law might be hatching?

Henrik vehemently prodded the list with his finger. 'I'll admit, there's no hard evidence YET. But it's my guess that Gilgad is testing some kind of drug, or a new form of biological or chemical warfare!'

Their close conversation was interrupted by a loud 'harrumph,' as a diminutive man in a tweed suit cleared his throat, in an attempt to distract them.

'I beg your pardon,' he said in wheedling tones, 'but could you keep the noise down a little?' He rolled his eyes in the direction of a couple of customers engrossed in comic books, standing nearby.

Hermione promptly returned the comic book she'd been holding to its appropriate spot on the magazine rack, and slipped Henrik's list into her handbag.

'Shall we go?' she said, turning to Henrik.

XXX

The rain had stopped and a faint glint of white winter sunshine was finally peeking through the dark clouds. Hermione realised she couldn't head straight back to The Leaky Cauldron with Henrik in tow.

'I actually meant it when I said I have an appointment,' she said apologetically.

'Yeah, I've got to be someplace else too,' Henrik said. 'But I want to keep in touch on this. I think you can help me out… We can help _each other_ out,' he added a little more diplomatically.

'Of course.' There was an awkward pause. 'The red-headed man you saw earlier.' Henrik nodded. 'That's my husband.'

'_Mr _Weasley.'

Hermione smiled. 'That's right. Oh, and I already know Draco's not a professor.'

'So why are you working with him? He has to be a company stooge of some sort. Seems a bit weird to be investigating his own company's work and dragging you along too, doesn't it?'

'Yes, yes it does,' Hermione said pensively. 'That's if it _is_ his company who's responsible for these atrocities!' she added hastily, in the spirit of fairness. 'You never mentioned a Gilgad facility in _Paris_, did you?'

Henrik's face puckered a little. 'Damn. Paris. Forgot that one. Still, there's got to be some kind of connection. I'll go sniffing, see what I can dig up.' His face brightened and he grinned a wide, beaming smile. Hermione found herself involuntarily admiring his teeth, which had to be the cleanest, straightest, whitest set of teeth she'd ever clapped eyes on.

'Oh... And if you ever fancy explaining to me exactly how you pulled off that flying trick with the toy gun earlier, then I'm all ears!' Henrik added.

'You imagined it,' Hermione said, strangely reluctant to obliviate him, which she knew was what she was supposed to do in these circumstances.

'Of course I did,' Henrik smirked.

XXX

Hermione's head was so full of the conversation she had just shared with Henrik, she barely noticed that it was Harry who was coming towards her, arms outstretched to embrace her. Ron was ordering a bottle of firewhiskey at the bar.

Harry immediately shook his head. 'Sorry Ron. I've only got an hour to spare at best.' He turned to Hermione. 'I'm here on business, unfortunately.'

'Well, a couple of drinks won't hurt now, will it?' Ron asserted, returning his attention to Hannah at the bar.

'Shall we sit down?' Harry said, a little formally Hermione thought.

XXX

'Okay, Hermione,' Harry said, taking a deep breath. He's nervous, Hermione thought anxiously. 'I hate to ask you this...but what's your connection with Draco Malfoy?'

'With _Malfoy_?' Hermione spluttered in feigned outrage. 'You know me, Harry,' she said, fixing him with a cool gaze. 'I think he's a snivelling little shit. Same as always.'

Harry momentarily flicked his eyes towards Ron, guffawing loudly with Hannah at the bar, then back to Hermione.

Hermione felt she was struggling to breath under Harry's penetrating stare.

'Well, he's sick…_very_ sick actually.'

'Where is he?'

'Where's who?' Ron asked, settling himself down at their table, his hands full of glasses and three packs of Chocoballs.

'Malfoy,' Hermione said.

'We picked him up yesterday in Paris,' Harry added.

'Paris? What's he doing there?' Ron said.

'Well, that's what a particularly officious Muggle homicide detective wanted to know too,' Harry said with a wry smile. 'Because, as it stands, Draco Malfoy is their number one suspect in a murder case.'

'MURDER?'

'At least he _was_…until we made sure the Muggle _gendarmerie_ conveniently forgot that it was Malfoy who'd been found holding a dying woman in his arms by the banks of the River Seine.' Harry took a deep swig of his drink. 'She'd been horribly tortured,' he added, sounding a little choked.

Hermione felt sick. 'You think he killed her?'

Harry shrugged. 'Don't know what I think to be honest, though I need to find out. Whoever did this was a bloody maniac! She'd been tortured by magic, but Malfoy didn't have a wand, which in itself was mighty peculiar.'

'You're telling me,' Ron muttered darkly.

'And he was delirious…ranting over and over about his wife Katya, and…other things. Rubbish really.'

Harry's eyes briefly passed over Hermione's face and he shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. He'd mentioned _her_, she knew it.

'So this corpse wasn't his wife then?' Ron asked.

'No. It was an older woman. We've identified her as a Svetlana Kerpin. We think she lived at an unplottable address. Probably in Paris. Obviously there's no chance of finding out exactly where any time soon. The bureaucracy's going to drag a bit on this one.'

'So the Muggles thought he was their man,' Ron said.

'The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming,' Harry agreed.

'So what's happened?'

'Well, Auror HQ wanted to move him to their own high security Medi-magic clinic somewhere in Belgium - it's where the Azkaban lifers get treated if they're ill - but I thought he was better-off staying at St. Gaspard's. So he's been bound over into my care until he recovers.'

'Special privileges for Malfoy?' Ron chuckled. 'You're getting sentimental, Harry.'

'Not at all,' Harry said flatly. 'St. Gaspard's is the finest hospital in Europe, and I need him to recover soon. Without his testimony, my investigation's screwed. All I've got to work on so far are his mindless ramblings. And the freakiest thing about _those_, is how desperate he is to talk to _Hermione_.'

Hermione's heart beat a little faster.

'He means in a legal capacity, surely?' Ron said, eyes narrowed.

'God knows. Right now he's in an extremely weakened state, and getting worse by the day. He's pretty much comatose actually.'

'Must be one helluva poison he got shot with,' Ron said soberly.

Harry arched his eyebrows in surprise. 'How do you know that?'

'It was all over the news,' Ron declared stoutly. 'Wasn't it, Hermione?' he added, cramming a Chocoball into his mouth.

Harry gave Ron a long, shrewd look, then turned to Hermione, a grave expression on his face.

'I'm really sorry to ask this of you, Hermione,' he said hesitantly. 'But in view of the circumstances – once Malfoy regains some form of consciousness - would you mind coming to Paris to help me talk to the guy? I think you might be our only hope of getting a modicum of sense out of him before it's too late.'

'Too late for what?' Hermione asked. She could feel the colour draining from her face.

Harry eyed her quizzically. 'Before he dies of course.'

CHAPTER TRACKS: **"SOUTHERN SUN" by OAKENFOLD**

"**FADE TO GREY" by VISAGE**

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to my beta, **Lou.**


	20. More Matter With Less Art

_**Facing up to Draco, and Harry takes charge… **_

**20. More Matter With Less Art**

Ron was going away again. This time to Georgia, where the Tbilisi Tigers, a popular quidditch team, were embroiled in a juicy betting scandal.

Hermione felt relieved. They'd done nothing but quarrel since Harry's revelations about Draco.

'I don't want you anywhere near Draco Malfoy, even if it's helping Harry out. Do you understand, Hermione?' Ron insisted.

'Don't be ridiculous,' she retorted, bridling at being told what to do.

'He's obviously flipped his lid. And now it looks like he's killed this poor, old lady. He can't be trusted!'

'There's no proof yet that he's killed anybody,' Hermione countered sternly. 'He didn't have a wand, remember?'

'He could have killed her and then chucked his wand in the river.'

'He didn't have a wand in Argentina, either,' Hermione argued, jadedly. They'd been over this, countless times already.

'I don't believe _that_ for one instant,' Ron said churlishly. 'How could he have done anything?'

'He lived like a Muggle.'

'Like a _Muggle_? He hates Muggles. He was having you on, Hermione,' Ron scoffed.

'You've changed your tune! You couldn't get enough of him before we went to Argentina!'

Ron eyed her suspiciously. 'And you've changed too! You say you_ hate _this guy with a passion, and yet since getting back from your little_ adventure _together, all you've damned well gone about is poor sickly Draco and how he might be in danger!' He clenched and unclenched his fists as he spoke. 'Seems to me like he's somehow got under your skin.'

Hermione flushed scarlet. 'That's – that's preposterous, Ron!'

'Of course it fucking is!' Ron yelled. 'It's bloody Draco Malfoy. Which makes it all the more DISGUSTING that you keep defending him.'

Hermione took a deep breath. 'I'm not defending him. Just saying that we don't know what's actually happened.'

'I don't want to know,' Ron said. 'I want us to steer clear. The man means trouble. He always did.'

She felt like crying.

What if Ron was right? What if her original instincts of hatred and mistrust towards Draco, had been right all along – in fact worsened?

After all, if Henrik's insinuations were correct, and Gilgad was orchestrating Dark Flux attacks against Muggles and Muggle-borns, then that probably meant Draco was involved too. The tattoo on Draco's arm might be fading, but at heart, he might still remain a Death Eater.

XXX

A week after Ron had left for Georgia, Harry finally arrived with news of Draco.

Hermione had been gazing out of her kitchen window, watching the antics of three incongruously over-sized crows, eyes glinting red in the weak wintry light, whisk over her back lawn in a flypast.

It had been the third time today; always accompanied by an unmistakeable fluttering of red at the corner of her eyes.

Oddly, despite everything that had happened, the crows didn't frighten her anymore. She was now convinced that Miguel had been telling the truth… Los Rojos didn't intend to kill her.

And in a strange way, the crows were a welcome distraction from the dank depression she sometimes felt she was sinking into. Alone at home, with Ron away and the kids in school, she'd been forming a rather worrying addiction to large doses of Dr Ubbly's Oblivious Unction.

The moment Harry Apparated into the garden, the crows scuttled high into the elm trees, and settled weightily on a branch, maintaining watchful sentry duty.

'Where's Ron gallivanted off to this time?' Harry asked, giving Hermione a warm hug.

'Georgia. For now.' She smiled nervously.

'Fancy a cup of tea?' She reached for a floral cake tin. 'Molly's made some Rock Cakes.'

Harry's eyes lit up. 'Is it too early for a glass of wine?'

XXX

The mediwizards at St. Gaspard's had chanced on a 'highly unusual' course of treatment for Malfoy, 'nothing short of a miracle,' Harry said, as he settled himself into Ron's favourite armchair, carefully placing the large glass of Rioja Hermione had offered him, on a side-table.

'They reckon we can speak to him tomorrow, if that's alright with you?' he asked tentatively.

'That should be fine,' Hermione said, positioning herself on the sofa opposite Harry. Her mouth suddenly felt dry. Tomorrow was very soon.

Thankfully, Ron would still be away.

'Malfoy will be furious when he finds out what saved him,' Harry smirked. 'MUGGLE BLOOD! When they gave him a transfusion using his own blood type – Epsilon - he very nearly died.'

'But that doesn't make sense.'

'Yeah… Like most things in this case,' Harry sighed. 'All we really know is, Malfoy was shot with a fatal pathogen, encased inside an enchanted pellet, which prevented his wound from healing.'

'You mean a bio-weapon?'

'One we've never seen before. _Gimlott's Disease_.'

But of course, Hermione thought. The perfect riposte to a Malfoy… Jeroboam had been having a particularly cruel joke at Draco's expense.

'But Gimlott's is a degenerative disease, Harry. It takes years to kill. Malfoy was weakening fast,' Hermione said.

'This is some kind of hybrid. It accelerates the process, meaning Malfoy's symptoms were the same as someone with long-term Gimlott's.' Harry pondered a moment, a sombre look on his face. 'He was in a right bloody mess when we found him. He'd completely lost the plot, and was so frail, he could hardly stand. I've never liked the guy, but it was quite distressing actually.'

Hermione desperately tried to dash the image from her mind. She needed a clear head to think this through.

She recalled Draco's ludicrous fear that night in Buenos Aires. He'd convinced himself he was infected with Dark Flux. After all, there was that same eerie blue which afflicted the victims…

'Can this new Gimlott's strain affect _anybody_, Harry?'

'No. Even in _this _form, it can only affect half-bloods apparently. Which means -'

'That the rumours about Lucius Malfoy are all true.'

'And Malfoy's a half-blood.'

That was another chilling similarity, Hermione thought. Both Dark Flux and Gimlott's affected specific sectors of the population… Dark Flux killed Muggles and Muggle-borns. Gimlott's killed half-bloods.

Hadn't Tony Goldstein once mentioned that Gimlott's only affected _Epsilon_ blood types? Like the Malfoys? And if that was further narrowed down to only Epsilon _half-bloods_, then maybe it was only the exclusive Epsilon+ blood group, which was truly vulnerable?

As for Dark Flux affecting Muggle-borns...well, they were predominantly _Gamma_ blood types.

This meant both Gimlott's and Dark Flux targeted precise _blood groups _only. Yes, that had to be the key, underpinning factor.

So why did Dark Flux kill Muggles too?

They needed hard, scientific facts. They needed to speak to Tony Goldstein. Interestingly, he'd never actually DENIED there was a connection between Gimlott's and Dark Flux when she'd asked him straight.

'You know that Tony Goldstein is the world's leading authority on Gimlott's Disease, Harry?'

'Yes – and he's on holiday,' Harry said with a wry smile.

'Oh. That's a shame.' Or a convenience... 'Can't you recall him? This is urgent stuff!'

Harry shook his head. 'No one knows where he is. Not even Padma. And Arcana have closed his lab down in his absence. According to the new MD, Torquil Haast, there isn't anyone else at Arcana covering his field.'

'He's lying,' Hermione said, a little more vehemently than she'd first intended.

'Really?' Harry said, surprised. 'I've known Torquil for some years now. He was our neighbour in Paris. He's always struck me as a straight-up sort of bloke. His closeness to the Malfoys has given us a lot of inside track into the dark artefacts market.'

'Well, he failed to tell you that Tony has a colleague called Binta.'

Harry nodded thoughtfully. 'Okay. I'll see if I can track her down.'

'And then there's The Jeroboam Foundation. Tony used to work for them too.'

'And _they_ told us to talk to Tony.' As he spoke, Harry fished out a silk hanky from his pocket, removed his glasses, and brusquely cleaned the lens.

'A quick Tergeo would have done just as well, Harry.'

'There's some things I still prefer to do myself,' he said, flashing her a brief, warm smile. He looked awfully tired, Hermione thought.

He sighed deeply. 'Gimlott's being used as a bio-weapon is very scary, Hermione. It's a particularly malicious way to try and kill someone. It's not a quick death – that would probably be kinder – but cruel and debilitating. It eats away at its victims. Like a cancer… No one deserves to die like that. Not even Lucius and Draco Malfoy.'

Hermione shuddered, as Harry's words sent a chill through her. For all her confusion and angst about Draco, the thought of him suffering like this, plummeted her into cold despair.

'But what makes it worse - what makes it _terrifying_ - is this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, that there's something I'm missing here,' Harry continued in low, deliberate tones. 'That this is a small part of something even bigger and scarier.'

Harry held Hermione's gaze.

'My gut instinct tells me that Malfoy has important information. That he's my way in. This was a personally motivated attack. A message. I need to find out who shot him and why.'

Harry paused momentarily, as if gathering his thoughts, but there was no mistaking the earnest, slightly awkward expression on his face.

Oh God. This is it, Hermione thought. She'd known it was coming.

'Now, Hermione, we _both _know that _you _know a lot more about this case than I do…'

'Listen, Harry. It's not what you think. Please ignore anything he might have said! He was delirious!' Hermione gabbled, standing up in sudden panic.

Harry held up his hand and gestured to her to sit back down again. 'He's said a lot of things, Hermione. But nothing for you to worry about.' He grinned. 'I'm not a fool. I know how you feel about him.'

Hermione sunk back onto the sofa, aware that her heart was pounding so loudly in her chest, she was amazed Harry couldn't hear it.

'I know that you hate his guts and always will. It must have been _hell_ having to work alongside him. But I need your help, Hermione. I've tried to make sense of Malfoy's hallucinatory rants, but I'm floundering. I need to know _everything _you know too.'

Hermione nodded, cowed a little by the unusually fierce intensity of Harry's gaze, oddly reminiscent of Ron in one of his deepest fervours. Draco must have rambled on feverishly about a lot more than she'd first thought. Nothing short of a new Dark Lord and full-blown Muggle Armageddon could have wrought this effect on Harry.

'You see, Hermione,' Harry continued. 'I've got a feeling that this might blow up to be a very big case, involving some very important wizards. And it's going to take a lot of hard work to get to the bottom of it. And I want complete confidentiality – no leaks.'

'Of course,' she said, in a tight choked voice. She had the distinct feeling she knew where he was headed with this. 'You never know who you can trust these days.'

'Especially Aurors,' Harry said, ruefully. 'As far as the paperwork goes, Malfoy remains bound into my care until we can close the Svetlana Kerpin case. That'll give us time to work on him.'

Hermione smiled wanly. 'By US, you mean...'

'Yes, US…though I suspect _you_ might have more success handling Malfoy than me,' Harry muttered, raising his eyebrows.

Hermione reddened. 'What do you mean?'

Harry laughed. 'Don't worry about it, Hermione. The guy's a bit mixed-up, that's all.' He took a deep swig of his glass of wine. 'But seriously, will you work this case with me?'

Sod Ron, Hermione thought. This was too important, and Harry needed her.

'Of course I will, Harry.'

XXX

The Potters lived in a large, sumptuous penthouse on La Rue Vieuville, close to La Place Des Abbesses in Montmartre. Hermione always loved to visit. The rooms were spacious and bright, immaculately, if a little minimally, decorated – lots of cream and white and apposite splashes of luminous colour.

The penthouse terrace was an oasis of calm, brimming over with lush vegetation and tropical flowers, which Ginny carefully cultivated with warming spells. Up here, the sounds of Paris became a distant hum. A soft, trickling of water from a small stone fountain into a fishpond, stuffed with sleek golden and calico fish, added to the soothing ambience.

Hermione liked nothing more than sitting on a low wooden-slatted deckchair next to this pond, gazing out at the splendid view of Le Sacre Coeur, gleaming white and exotic-looking, perched on the hill just above them.

Once she'd told Harry just about everything that had transpired since the day she'd come home to find Draco talking to Ron in her living room, Harry had insisted she bring the box files Draco had given her and Ron, supposedly offering background information on The Jeroboam Foundation, to Paris.

'You never know, we might find something useful. This feud between Saul Jeroboam and Ephraim Golowitz is rooted in the past.'

They decided that Rose and Hugo should come to Paris to visit their cousins for the weekend. Ginny was happy to mind them, whilst Hermione purportedly 'assisted' Harry, by analysing an intriguing collection of runes, which were proving crucial to one of his investigations.

It was the perfect cover story, and allowed Hermione time to mull the contents of the box files, in quiet seclusion by the fountain. Meanwhile, Harry moved Draco from St. Gaspard's to Auror HQ – which was how he described the centre for European Auror Co-Operative Ventures – for questioning later that afternoon.

Hermione had been relieved to finally offload her experiences in Argentina to an Auror of Harry's calibre – in particular her more recent suspicions of Gilgad Inc. She told him about her initial doubts, when Draco first divulged his sinister hypothesis that Jeroboam was harvesting Dark Flux to spawn a mass Muggle murder. Why had he approached Ron, and not the Ministry of Magic? Harry agreed that this was very dubious behaviour, in light of the seriousness of Draco's allegations.

She recounted how Los Rojos derailed Ron's mission, meaning she became his reluctant substitute.

'And it was definitely Jeroboam's henchmen who shot Malfoy with Gimlott's Disease?'

'Yes. They then continued to menace us in Argentina,' Hermione said. She didn't spare Harry the sickening details.

'But this Miguel Culebra – he claimed Jeroboam had no intention to actually _kill _you?'

'That was the gist.'

'And you say Miguel was murdered by the guy whose memory you saw, Senor Asusto?'

Hermione nodded.

'But _you_ didn't see this Senor Asusto by Miguel's boat, did you?'

'No – Malfoy did.'

'And you believe him?'

'I've – I've no reason not to!' Though it did seem odd, when she thought about it, that Draco had accused Asusto, when they were probably working for the same team…

Harry narrowed his eyes quizzically. 'Tell me again, why do you now think this Asusto worked for Golowitz?'

'I don't know for certain. I first thought he must work for Jeroboam. But I now believe his modified memory was a ploy, to draw me in -'

'- as an official witness to what Los Rojos were doing: to discredit Jeroboam.'

'Yes. Ephraim Golowitz has made it pretty clear that's what he wants from me,' Hermione said.

'So why did Senor Asusto kill Miguel?' Harry asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

'To silence him?' Hermione replied, a little uncertainly.

'And where did this toy scanner come from?'

'Malfoy says it was stolen from one of Jeroboam's factories.'

'My colleague at Auror HQ contacted The Jeroboam Foundation earlier today, and they deny all knowledge of a Dark Flux scanner,' Harry said. 'What I don't get, is why you didn't realise the scanner was a fake.'

'We couldn't open the case. It was enchanted so that it could only be used by Muggles.'

'That's just weird,' Harry said, clearly perplexed. 'Blimey Hermione! I'm surprised _you _of all people ever fell for this!' he added, with a hollow laugh.

'Everything happened so fast, Harry!'

'So we can assume Malfoy always knew it was a fake,' Harry said flatly.

'Malfoy didn't even know what the scanner looked like,' Hermione said, glumly aware that this sounded like she was actually defending him… But it was _true_. There had been something genuinely artless about him.

'Well, we'll see if we can jog Malfoy's memory about the origins of this scanner, as it pre-dates your jaunt to Argentina. At the moment, he's claiming complete memory loss, dating from the night he got shot in London,' Harry said in scathing tones. 'And it might be useful for you to contact this Muggle Henrik. We need to see if he's made any other startling discoveries about Gilgad that Malfoy conveniently _forgot _to tell you; anything to bolster our case.'

'I've already done some research of my own,' Hermione said, producing a print-out, which she gave to Harry. 'I used my Mum's computer at the surgery to go on the Internet. It took me some time, but I eventually found Muggle news reports supporting all of Henrik's allegations of unexplained sudden deaths close to Gilgad facilities.'

Harry studied the print-out. 'But we still don't know if these facilities actually exist. If they do, this is compelling evidence. We need Henrik – or Malfoy – to show us where they are. Can I keep this?' he said.

'I made a copy,' Hermione said.

'Good. Look through the files and see what you can find,' Harry said.

He'd developed a very authoritative manner, Hermione thought, a little uneasily. Though it was hardly surprising considering his status and reputation.

She spent a good couple of hours rooting through the box files but found nothing but dusty piles of company reports, some technical data pertaining to well-known Medi-magic products, and a few well-worn newspaper clippings.

Was there anything useful in here at all? Any clues?

Finally, though, she got to see Saul Jeroboam himself.

There were just two photos. In one faded _Daily Prophet_ shot which accompanied a gushing celebration of his philanthropic achievements, Jeroboam seemed a shrunken figure – barely conspicuous in an oversized armchair. His small pale face peeked timidly through a black, bushy beard.

The second photo was much more interesting, Hermione realised, as this depicted The Geneva Group – the last known bunch of scientists to legally research Dark Flux, some thirty years ago.

Here was a much younger, more upright version of Jeroboam. His beard was less voluminous, exposing a self-assured leer and deep-set jet-black eyes. Three of his four companions, leaning against a table behind them, were enjoying what appeared to be a rip-roaring joke.

There was no mistaking the youthful, handsome face of Ephraim Golowitz, throwing his head back to guffaw with laughter. His hair was long and unkempt, and, to Hermione's surprise, he was wearing ripped jeans under his barely buttoned robe. Standing next to Ephraim was a slightly built man, grinning toothily at the camera. A slim, young woman in a smart black robe, with dark curly hair, was leaning against him, her hand draped across the back of this shoulders. Her head was tilted back, much like Ephraim's. Unfortunately, her face had been scrubbed clean off the page, which instantly sparked Hermione's curiosity.

There was something strangely telling, in how she held her body close to the grinning man, whilst gently craning her neck backwards to meet Ephraim's twinkling gaze. Something intimate…

And who was the tall, spindly character lurking at the back of the room? The photo was faded, leaving only a vague impression of a thin, mournful face and a long, scraggy beard, which extended almost to the floor.

Hermione rifled again through the newspaper articles, scanning for names.

She soon found something promising.

The Swiss Ministry of Magic had credited The Geneva Group with an award for their ground-breaking investigations into 'Magical Leptons.' Leptons? But surely that was a Muggle term? Something to do with Quantum Theory…quarks, neutrinos…that sort of thing.

Saul Jeroboam had a particular mention for heading up the project, followed by Reynaldo and Anna Cornec, with Ephraim Golowitz named as a junior researcher.

The shadowy figure behind them was unnamed.

Reynaldo and Anna Cornec…and Ephraim. Was her imagination running riot? The married woman and the junior researcher…though it seemed incredible that a man of Ephraim's stature and power had ever been anything 'junior.' How he must have hated it, Hermione thought.

'Hermione?' Ginny's clear voice rang out. 'I'm taking the kids to the park. Do you fancy coming along?'

Hermione had been so engrossed, she hadn't noticed Ginny's emergence onto the terrace. She checked her watch. Ginny had been watching the kids for over two hours. She deserved a break.

'Yes – that would be nice,' Hermione smiled, shoving the papers back into the box file. She'd exhausted their usefulness anyway, and a walk and some time with the children, would hopefully take her mind off the fact that she had to face Draco later that afternoon.

XXX

Square de La Rue Burq was a quiet, leafy park, nestling in a corner of a narrow residential street, just a few minutes walk from the Potters' home.

Rose squealed with excitement as her cousins James and Albus chased her around the playground, whilst Hugo attempted to lure Lily, Ginny's youngest, into the sandpit, to make castles. Hermione felt a little sorry for him. For all his efforts, Lily adamantly refused, preferring to stick close to her mother's side.

She was a funny, solemn little thing, Hermione often thought. She was a pale child with ethereal blue eyes. She had her mother's vivacious red hair, but her face lacked Ginny's handsome warmth. Ginny's boys were much more rugged and earthy in comparison. James was particularly good-looking, with a strong, tall physique. Hermione suspected he would prove to be a fine quidditch player. Albus was more slightly-built, with darker, more brooding features, but blessed with a wonderful, winning smile, which never failed to charm. Rose was particularly fond of Albus.

'This was a good idea,' Ginny said, grinning at the children. She looked remarkably well, Hermione thought. Her hair glowed like molten copper in the sunlight. She was wearing a jade green gown, which perfectly complimented her colouring. 'Maybe you should come and stay more often, now that Ron's got his _big case_!' she said in mocking tones.

'Now that I'm not working-'

Ginny flushed a little. 'That as well.'

'It's tricky during term-time,' Hermione said.

'We have a brilliant tutor. Arnaud. He comes to the apartment every weekday morning to teach the kids. I'm sure Rose and Hugo would fit in nicely.'

Hermione shook her head. 'Thanks, but they enjoy school.'

They lapsed into slightly awkward silence; something that happened more often than she liked to admit, when she was with Ginny.

'Mind you,' Hermione said, rushing to fill the void in their conversation, 'this is a wonderful place to live.' The trees were already greening in readiness for Spring, and the air felt crisp and revitalising, despite their location at the heart of a grand, bustling metropolis.

'We used to live on this street, actually,' Ginny said, nodding towards a clean, white block of apartments, facing the park. 'La Rue Burq is a bit of a wizarding enclave.'

Hermione prickled with sudden curiosity. She'd never visited the Potters during their first sojourn in Paris, as they'd only been here for a couple of months, and Harry was away for work during most of that time.

She gazed up at the white apartment block. This was where the 2008 Dark Flux outbreak had occurred.

'But doesn't this place hold bad memories for you?' she said in hushed tones, hoping that Lily wasn't listening in.

'Not anymore; though it was tough at the time.' A ripple of sadness passed momentarily across Ginny's face. 'I was so frightened, especially with Harry on assignment and Lily due any day. But everyone was so supportive.'

'Harry said you knew Torquil Haast?'

Ginny beamed. 'Ah yes, dear Torquil…he was so sweet. Always on hand to help me, which was brilliant, seeing as I was unwell for most of my third trimester.' She lowered her voice. 'It was poor Torquil who found the first body.'

'Who was that?'

Ginny indicated a lower floor window. 'Marie-Louise Lefebvre. She was such a sweetheart.'

'I once met a man who loved her,' Hermione said sadly, recalling Jonas Arbuthnot.

'Really?' Ginny said. 'I don't remember a boyfriend.' She pointed again at the building. 'You see the balcony with the geraniums? That was our flat. The Haasts were across the landing.'

'_Haasts_?'

'Yes. Torquil has a twin brother. Selwyn. He was very shy. A workaholic. We rarely saw him. He was always working in his lab. He's the guy who found a cure for Type B Vanishing Sickness and he also pioneered hangover-free sleeping draughts – so a good egg all-round,' Ginny said enthusiastically. She pointed to the apartment above. 'That's the Sezignacs. They still live there. I was fairly close to Chantal Sezignac; she was pregnant too.'

'Did they lose anybody?'

'Sadly, yes. They were badly hit. Chantal's brother-in-law was a Muggle. He was visiting at the time. And there was a Muggle workman, fixing tiles on their balcony. No one noticed he was dead for some hours!' she said, shaking her head. 'Little Evander was born a week before Lily… just before the Dark Flux outbreak. So you can imagine how hellish it was for them. A new baby and multiple deaths on their doorstep! And if I remember correctly, Evander's grandad, who lived with them, was sick too. He recently died of Gimlott's, poor sod.'

'Sounds awful...'

'Yes, it was all very traumatic. Still is...' Ginny leaned closer to Hermione, and whispered in her ear, to ensure Lily didn't catch what she was saying. 'The little boy… He's a bit strange.'

'What do you mean?'

'He refuses to talk.'

XXX

Gaining entry to Auror HQ was a ludicrously complicated process. It involved walking clockwise three times around Le Square du Vert Galant, a tiny teardrop-shaped park which jutted into the River Seine close to Pont-Neuf, before sitting on a particular bench, crossing one's arms and legs, and reciting 'La Belle Gabrielle' – forwards and then backwards. Hermione wondered if such odd behaviour might attract more undue Muggle attention than was strictly necessary.

Maybe it was a _French_ thing? Hermione mused, as she underwent further security checks once inside Auror HQ – which was effectively an underground bunker.

There was a famously over-complicated access system to the French Ministry of Magic at Place Vendome. This required three glasses of claret, drunk in quick succession at the bar of the Hotel Meurice on Rue de Rivoli, followed by a sprint down Rue Castiglione to Place Vendome, a hair-raising zig zag march across the grand square, obviously avoiding any Muggle cars, taxis and motorcycles in the process, then a dash to the ornate lobby of the Ritz-Carlton hotel, where an entrance to the Ministry could be found behind a concealed mirror.

This entire sequence of events had to be achieved in just twelve minutes flat, otherwise the process had to be started all over again.

Hermione often wondered how French wizards ever managed to get any work done, considering so many of them were ferociously drunk by the time they arrived at the Ministry. One moment's dillydallying or a tricky pedestrian crossing, could mean the difference between a fair day's work and a hangover.

'Okay,' Harry said abruptly, 'we're in here.' He ushered Hermione into an interrogation room.

It was a forbidding place: a small, claustrophobic box, comprising stark grey walls, no windows, and a solitary neon-strip light hovering above a long wooden trestle table. A single chair was positioned on one side of the table facing two others. A fourth chair, reserved for Hermione, was tucked into a corner. Her job, Harry told her, was not to question Draco this time - but to _observe_.

'I suspect your being here will throw him off-kilter,' Harry said confidently.

She instantly felt swamped by a cold, sickly dread.

She'd managed to suppress her nerves all day, but that wasn't possible anymore.

In just a few minutes, she'd be face-to-face with Draco.

'Does he know I'll be here?' she asked tremulously.

'Yes, he does,' Harry said. 'I should warn you. He's not a happy bunny.'

'What – what did he say?'

'You really want to know?' Harry said, in cool, arch tones.

'I don't know...maybe not.'

'Look, he's just being typical cocky Malfoy motor mouth…nothing we can't handle. I guess he didn't like being accused of international terrorism…'

'You did _what_?' Hermione said, aghast. 'I thought this was an information-gathering exercise, not a bloody inquisition!'

'I decided to go in heavy; to scare him,' Harry said in a blasé voice that set Hermione's teeth on edge. 'I pointed out that the maximum penalty for such a crime, is the Dementor's kiss, and life in Azkaban!' he added, with considerable relish.

'But he'll think _I've _accused him!'

'You pretty much did, Hermione.'

'No, Harry! I gave you _information_,' she corrected in severe tones.

The door suddenly clunked open and an attractive, slim-waisted black woman, in a tight-fitting Muggle trouser-suit entered the room. She introduced herself to Hermione as Francoise Dupont, then took the seat next to Harry, pulling out a roll of parchment and a quill.

'Today's interview is just an ice-breaker,' Harry said to both of them, straightening then re-straightening the files on the table in front of him. 'We want to see how Malfoy responds to some basic questions about his trip to Argentina.' Then to Francoise, 'if he's being evasive, don't hold back.' He grinned at Hermione. 'Francoise is a highly skilled Legilimens.'

'Isn't this all a little…heavy-handed?' Hermione fumed.

Her pulse was racing at breakneck speed. She desperately needed to compose herself, only to find her stomach lurching queasily, as the door swung open, and Draco was escorted into the room by two burly guards, who then stood against the back wall.

Hermione had trained her face to be devoid of feeling when they met again, but when the moment finally came, she found she couldn't look at him at all, preferring to focus on how her hands were clasped so tightly together in her lap, her knuckles had gone white.

She didn't have to stare Draco in the face to know that he was mad at her. His voice alone, affirming his name was Draco Malfoy, and that his address was Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, England, reverberated through her.

She felt clammy and warm, as though the plain grey walls of the interrogation room were closing in on her like a coffin.

Harry had formally started the interview, explaining why he was investigating Gilgad Inc and Malfoy in particular. How certain information had come to light that implicated them in engineering deadly outbreaks of Dark Flux.

'You're wasting your time, Potter,' Draco sneered.

'I don't think so, Malfoy. I want you to tell me about your recent trip to Argentina.'

'I've nothing to say,' Draco said, spitting out his words angrily. 'You can't make me tell you anything! I know my rights.'

Harry sniggered. 'This isn't a _Muggle_ police station, Malfoy. You have no rights.'

'I'm sick,' Draco said. 'I can't remember anything.'

'That's not what the mediwizards at St. Gaspard's told me this morning. Your neurological faculties are safe and sound. All memories intact.'

This was news to Hermione.

She finally braved a sidelong glance at Draco, only to find that once she'd finally steeled herself to look, she could barely take her eyes off him.

He looked bewitchingly well for a man who'd almost died. Muggle blood must suit him, she thought. His skin glowed with health; his eyes were bright and alert. He'd lost the strained sharpness that seemed to afflict his features when he was particularly tired.

He was wearing the same Muggle clothes she'd last seen him wearing in Buenos Aires – basically jeans and a shirt – but they looked tatty. There was even a gaping rip in his shirt-sleeve. Hermione was surprised no one had bothered to fix this at the hospital during his stay - it would have been the work of a moment – as the clothes looked freshly laundered. Her hand itched to whip out her wand and do it herself.

Harry was certainly right about Draco's 'cocky' routine. He was slunk back in his chair, arms folded, head tilted to one side away from the corner where Hermione was seated, eyeing Harry and Francoise with pitying disdain.

However, the more she stared, the more she realised that his defiant posture, the icy gleam of his eyes, the petulant curl of his lips, wasn't really cockiness at all.

More like sheer, cold-blooded fury.

Hermione resolutely focused her attention away from Draco to Francoise, who was sounding extremely exasperated.

'You do realise, Mr Malfoy, that non-compliance with our investigation into this matter, might be construed against you?'

'She's serious, Malfoy,' Harry said in gentler tones. 'We don't like resorting to Veritaserum.'

'How very sporting of you,' Draco snarled.

'But,' Harry continued determinedly, 'in view of the gravity of this situation, we might have to.'

Draco tightly pursed his lips, directing the full glare of his unflinching gaze on Harry.

'Just go ahead, Potter.'

His eyes flashed momentarily in Hermione's direction. She instantly looked away, heart racing. '_I've_ got nothing to hide,' he drawled.

'I'd prefer a frank and voluntary exchange of information,' Harry said calmly. 'We just want to know why you visited Argentina – in particular, a town in Patagonia called Santa Maria. We want to know if your company, Gilgad Inc, which has a high security research facility very close to Santa Maria, was involved in any shape or form in the outbreak of Dark Flux which occurred there last December. We also want to know why you were transporting a plastic, toy gun, which you claimed was a device designed to detect Dark Flux. And we would like to know, if you recognised whoever it was who shot you with a deadly dose of Gimlott's Disease.'

Draco was stony-faced, seemingly implacable. A supreme effort of concentrated stillness, Hermione thought to herself. Maybe he was aware Francoise was a Legilimens? Perhaps he was having to practice Occlumency, to prevent her probing his mind?

'We particularly and most urgently need to know, Malfoy, if another Dark Flux attack is imminent – there, in Santa Maria, or elsewhere,' Harry said.

Draco remained blank and inscrutable.

Nobody spoke for what seemed to Hermione like an eternity. She felt deafened by the swoosh and roar of blood in her ears, the shushing sound of her own breathing which seemed to fill the room.

'Honestly, Potter,' Draco suddenly said, his dark, sardonic tones piercing the silence. 'I've no idea what you're talking about.'

Francoise and Harry exchanged weary looks. Francoise shook her head.

Harry half-turned to face Hermione. 'Is there anything you'd like to add, Hermione?'

She flushed crimson, hotly aware that the full force of Draco's gaze was now pointed directly at her.

'Yes, Mrs Weasley, is there anything _you'd_ like to add?' Draco said, with a taunting smirk.

Harry snapped his attention angrily back to Draco. 'That's enough Malfoy,' he said in clipped tones. 'We'll resume this discussion later.' He gathered up his files and stood up, beckoning to the guards to come and reclaim their prisoner.

XXX

Hermione waited for Harry in the foyer. She was feeling a little faint. The interrogation room had been stuffy and confining and she craved fresh air.

Harry came bounding towards her. 'Okay, that's dealt with Malfoy.'

'Are you keeping him here?'

'No, I…' he quickly scanned the hustle and bustle of the lobby, then leant in closer to Hermione. 'I've had him removed from here to safe custody.'

'Surely this is as safe as it gets, Harry?' Hermione said, eyeing the granite grey walls of Auror HQ with distaste.

Harry raised his eyebrows sceptically.

'Don't trust anyone,' he mouthed. 'Now Hermione,' he said in a louder, breezier tone, pointing to another door she hadn't noticed before, which led to a spiral staircase heading even further into the dark bowels of the earth. 'I'll need to take some memories from you.'

'Memories? Why?'

Harry blinked rapidly in confusion. 'As thorough and informative as your account of everything has been, there might still be something you've overlooked. You look green, Hermione. Are you feeling alright?' Harry's eyes clouded with concern.

'I'm fine,' Hermione smiled. She pressed her hand tightly against her lips and closed her eyes, aware of a swirling sensation swooping through her.

'What - what memories in particular?' she asked breathlessly.

XXX

Hermione and Harry exited Auror HQ via a small, inconspicuous doorway leading onto Quai des Orfevres, which ran alongside the wide, grey River Seine. From here it was a short walk to the Hotel Danemark, close to Place St Michel.

'What did you say we're doing at this hotel?' Hermione asked Harry.

Harry flicked a quick glance over his shoulder. 'You'll see.'

'You need to give me more than that, Harry,' Hermione snapped. 'I'm getting a bit pissed off at being bossed about like one of your bloody minions!'

Harry gave her a sharp look. 'I'm just doing my job, Hermione.' He hooked his arm through hers, drawing her closer. 'I'll explain everything later,' he added in softer tones.

However, all Hermione's peevishness swiftly dissipated as they crossed Le Pont de St Michel. To her left was a glorious view of Notre Dame's genteel façade, basking in the winter sunshine, like a giant, magnificently plumed, golden owl, peeking through the trees at them. To her right, a series of bridges spanning the river, arched into the distance. _Bateaux Mouches_ gently cruised the greenish-grey waters of the Seine, and the tree-lined quaysides, flanked by handsome cream buildings, were thronged with colourful crowds of Muggles, browsing a plethora of bookstalls. Hermione's heart couldn't help but beat a little quicker at the sight of it all.

They soon approached a vast fountain centrepiece; a dark bronze archangel astride a fallen man, which commandeered a junction. Two roads bifurcated here on either side of the fountain. They took the road to the right and within moments had arrived at a small square – little more than an oversized pavement - hosting a crop of souvenir shops and popular bistros, customers spilling onto outside tables despite the fresh, chill temperatures. They headed down a narrow street on their immediate right, which was lined with fast food joints, ice cream parlours and more cafes.

After just a hundred yards, Harry steered her right again into an even narrower street, barely able to fit the width of a decent-sized car. An Irish pub, decked out in green and Guinness signs sat squarely on the corner. Hermione glanced up at the name of the road – Rue Git-le-Coeur – noting that the Hotel Danemark was just next-door.

'Here we are,' Harry mumbled, leading the way inside.

The lobby was a feast of candy-striped antique chairs, dark lacquered furniture, and a resplendent Persian rug. A number of Medieval-looking heavy-browed portraits gawped down at them from the walls. For the briefest moment, Hermione felt convinced, that one of these portraits – a surly looking man sporting an ostentatious hat and a richly jewelled ermine cape – had actually winked at her.

She turned to Harry.

'Yes…a lot of wizards come to stay here,' he murmured, aware that a noisy pack of tourists was congregating by the reception desk.

Hermione sighed deeply. 'Let me guess.' They stepped into the lift, which surged upwards. 'Is this where you're keeping Malfoy?'

'It is,' Harry said, with a cheery smile. 'Now that we've satisfied officialdom with a _formal_ interview, I thought it'd be easier getting information out of him in more salubrious - and _secretive -_ surroundings.'

'But surely this can't be protocol?'

'Well, I tend to make my own rules around here to be honest. And like I said, I want to handle this affair quietly and _safely._'

'I don't think a three star tourist hotel counts as _secure custody_, Harry.'

The lift shuddered to a halt and Harry clicked open the door. They stepped out into a long corridor leading to a single door.

'This floor is private,' Harry assured her, 'and fitted up with more wards than Malfoy Manor.'

She gazed at the door ahead of them.

'Is he alone?'

'No. Francoise is babysitting him until we arrive. She'll be our backup at HQ. Otherwise, from now on, it's just us.' He gave her a keen look of warning. 'Hermione. It pains me to say this. But you can't breathe a word of any of this to Ron.'

'Of course, Harry.' That suited her perfectly…but still… 'Do - do you think he can't be trusted then?'

'It's not him I'm worried about,' he said cryptically, through gritted teeth.

CHAPTER TRACKS: **"STEREO" by ADALINE**

** "BLUE JEANS" by LANA DEL REY **

**Author's Note:** A huge thanks for the reviews! They are much appreciated.

Disclaimer: **I own nothing except my original characters**

Thanks to Lou.


	21. Doubt Thou The Stars Are Fire

_**Draco makes a big decision…**_

**21. Doubt Thou The Stars Are Fire **

The medieval candy stripe theme of the Hotel Danemark lobby, clearly extended into the upstairs accommodations. This was an apartment, with a small cream-tiled kitchenette abutting the living area, and a door opening onto a bedroom. A ruffled burgundy bed-cover had half-tumbled from the bed to the floor, pooling in thick folds onto a pale pink carpet.

Francoise was seated alone, on a stiffly upholstered chaise longue. Compared to the upright, efficient persona she had presented just a few hours ago, she seemed droopy and faded.

'Where's Malfoy?' Harry asked.

She pointed with her wand at a closed door directly ahead.

'He says the décor makes him feel sick.'

The sound of a toilet flush resounded throughout the apartment. Francoise leaped to her feet, grabbing her handbag and wand.

'I'll leave you with Mr Sunshine,' she said in ironic tones, casting them a pitying glance as she left.

Harry sealed the door behind her, and casually replaced Francoise on the chaise longue, stretching out and easing his feet onto a black lacquered coffee table in front of him.

The bathroom door swung open, and Draco burst into the room with explosive force. 'Even the fucking taps don't work properly,' he griped, drawing to an abrupt halt at the sight of a beaming Harry Potter.

Harry serenely gestured to an armchair facing him.

'Listen Potter, I'm not in the mood for any more of your crap!' Draco snapped.

'Please sit down, Malfoy.' But Draco continued to bristle with hostility. 'I won't bite,' Harry simpered sarcastically.

He nodded to Hermione, who stood frozen to the spot by the door, behind Draco.

'And neither will she.'

Draco cast a glance in Hermione's direction. A dark scowl clouded his features. He sank slowly into the armchair.

Hermione took a deep breath and advanced deeper into the room, aware that both men were watching her. She sought out another chair in vain, and finally plumped for the chaise longue alongside Harry. It was short and narrow, and as she was immediately knocking elbows with Harry, she quickly enchanted it to a more commodious size.

'That's more like it,' she tittered nervously.

'Excellent. We wouldn't you want to feel uncomfortable now, would we?' Draco said in cutting tones.

Hermione braced herself to look him boldly in the face, instantly locking eyes with him in a way that made her insides lurch and her cheeks redden.

This was hopeless, she thought to herself. She was a grown woman, not some teenage chit with a crush.

'This will be your home for the foreseeable future, Malfoy,' Harry said smoothly, oblivious to Hermione's emotional ruckus. 'At least until Auror HQ is officially convinced you didn't kill Svetlana Kerpin.'

Draco's eyebrows shot up in amazement.

'I thought YOUthought I was a fucking terrorist,' he scoffed.

'I very much doubt you're anything of the sort, Malfoy,' Harry drawled. 'I doubt you've got the balls to kill anyone – not even a defenceless old lady like Svetlana Kerpin.'

'So what's with this farce then?' Draco complained, gesticulating wildly at the candy-striped room. 'Aren't you the big gun at Auror HQ these days? If you think I'm innocent, just let me go and have done with it. I need to get home to my son.'

'I can't let you go. You have crucial information. I need to keep close tabs on you,' Harry said, his lips set in a tight, hard line. Draco fisted his hands in his hair in frustration.

'You should know, Malfoy, that this apartment is secured with wards, so powerful, any attempt to slip the net, and you'll be splinched to a pulp. You can only leave this place in the company of Hermione or myself.'

'Why Hermione?' Draco sneered, looking her up and down, lip curled in distaste. 'She's not even an Auror. She was an unemployed do-gooding pen-pusher the last time I checked.'

'She's working with me,' Harry said firmly.

'Oh…and I thought she was working with me.' Draco shook his head at her in mock disappointment. 'Fickle little thing, isn't she? You'd better watch your back, Potter!'

'Shut up Malfoy!' Hermione shrilled, unable to contain the frustration boiling up inside of her.

'Ah, she speaks!' Draco jeered. 'And there I was thinking you'd been Langlocked! Or were you just struck dumb in my presence?'

'Don't flatter yourself,' Hermione said heatedly.

Harry stood up. 'Where's the minibar? I had it stocked with butterbeers.'

Draco looked askance at a line of empty bottles on the kitchenette worktop.

'_Those_ butterbeers?'

Harry frowned.

'I was a little thirsty…I'd conjure one up for you, but I don't seem to have a wand…' Draco added.

'For Merlin's sake,' Hermione growled, re-filling the bottles with a quick swish of her wand. 'Pass me one too please, Harry.'

Harry distributed the butterbeers and re-settled himself on the chaise longue, facing Draco.

'So here's the thing, Malfoy, in return for having saved you from the delights of a Muggle prison, I'm going to need your help.'

'Whatever you want, the answer's NO.'

Harry visibly tensed, but ploughed on regardless. 'As we discussed earlier, we're worried your father-in-law's firm, Gilgad Inc, has found a way to weaponise and disseminate Dark Flux.'

'I meant what I said, Potter. I KNOW NOTHING.'

'Look, Malfoy,' Harry persisted patiently. 'You've nothing to fear here. You can speak to us in complete confidence.'

'So what was the point of the fucking hardball interrogation routine at Auror HQ then?' Draco barracked. 'Showing off for the ladies, were you?'

A fleeting rush of irritation threatened to sink Harry's mild-mannered demeanour, but he quickly recovered.

'I had my reasons,' he said in calm, measured tones. 'And it's probably not a bad thing that you protested so fiercely.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'If you're to spy against your father-in-law, it's important he still trusts you, that's all.'

Draco blanched. 'You WHAT? You want me to SPY for you?' He erupted into loud, snorting laughter. 'You've got to be fucking kidding, right?'

Harry shook his head, a confident glint in his eye.

'No way, Potter. You've got it all wrong! Ephraim's no terrorist. He's been trying to_ stop _that kind of thing_ -_'

'To stop Jeroboam getting hold of Dark Flux and killing loads of Muggles? I already know _that _story,' Harry said wearily.

Draco flashed Hermione a sickly grin. 'Exactly. You don't need _me_ to tell you about it, when you've got smarty-pants Granger on board.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'It's thanks to Hermione that we might be closer to the real truth about this matter.'

'And Henrik,' Hermione interjected.

'Henrik?' Draco exclaimed, 'that dodgy Danish guy?'

'Yes, Malfoy. Henrik did some homework on Gilgad. Apparently, your company has top-secret research facilities close to just about every deadly Dark Flux outbreak in recent years.' Hermione plucked her copy of Henrik's list from her handbag, and pushed it across the table towards him. To her embarrassment, her hand was trembling.

Alongside each site location mentioned by Henrik, she'd neatly compiled a description of the place, date and death toll of each corresponding sudden mass death incident, based on her Internet research.

Draco cast a perfunctory glance at the list before him, and then pushed the parchment back towards Hermione.

'This isn't proof of anything,' he said. 'I haven't heard of any of these sites. I doubt they even exist.'

'So you're absolutely positive, Malfoy, YOUpersonallyknow nothing about a Gilgad research lab at Puerto Bandera?' Hermione aimed to sound as dispassionate as possible, but was acutely conscious that her voice quavered a little as she spoke.

'Where the hell is Puerto Bandera?' Draco demanded. He seemed genuinely mystified.

'About sixty kilometres from Santa Maria,' she said, easing the parchment back to his side of the table. 'Look again, Malfoy,' she pleaded.

Draco slapped the parchment away. 'For fuck's sake, Hermione, can't you see this is obviously something that little Danish twat has cobbled together to make me look bad? He never liked me.'

'Draco. Please….'

Draco groaned dramatically, snatching at the parchment, which he then studied, a concentrated expression on his face.

'Just imagine for one moment, that this list is all true,' Hermione said. 'It's too much of a coincidence, don't you think?' She leaned across the coffee table to point out the relevant parts of the document. 'As you can see, _this _data tallies with what Henrik told us at Perito Moreno….' Her hand accidentally touched his. A stinging jolt of awareness shot through her. She instantly retreated to the safety of the chaise longue. 'All these deaths - as I'm sure you recall - resulted in blue corpses.'

Draco was curiously still, eyes fixed on the list before him.

'As for the scanner,' Hermione continued in earnest tones, fighting to ignore a tight, strangulated feeling in her chest as she spoke, 'the scanner we were supposed to use to detect Dark Flux… Well, _here's _the scanner.' Draco looked up as she fished the toy Galinka she'd bought for Hugo, from out of her handbag.

'It's from a Muggle TV show, _Space Force 7_.'

Draco reluctantly picked up the toy gun and slowly examined it, pressing the FIRE button a couple of times.

'You've got to be kidding me. You see _this _as proof? Proof of what?' He glared at Hermione, flinging the Galinka contemptuously aside. She automatically flinched, as the Galinka skidded across the table. 'Is it truly beyond the realms of possibility, that Jeroboam simply made his scanners to look like this? And for all we know, your beloved Henrik is one of Jeroboam's spies,' he added, his voice laced with spite.

'Where's the scanner now?' Harry asked.

Draco shrugged. 'I lost it.'

'In Argentina?'

'No.' Draco flicked a glance at Hermione and seemed reluctant to continue.

'Where then?' Harry pressed.

'In America,' he grunted, grudgingly.

'What the hell were you doing there?' Hermione asked.

'I was in Hexmouth… Maine,' he said, looking a little sheepish. 'Visiting the Hexmouth Witches.'

'The _who_?' Harry asked Hermione.

'Famous seers,' she said scornfully, 'or so they claim.'

'They were recommended to me by our mutual friend Dolores,' Draco said pointedly. 'And they were very useful. They're why I'm here, in Paris.'

'They said SHEwas here?'

'That there was a connection.'

'Sorry,' Harry interrupted, looking bewildered. 'Have I missed something? WHO was here?'

'Katya. Malfoy's wife.' Hermione said.

'They used the pendant,' Draco said, stroking the silver rose necklace around his neck. Hermione couldn't help but notice that despite his rejuvenated composure, his nails were bitten and ragged. 'They cast a powerful spell to extract images from the rose charm; 'visual resonation' they called it. That's what led me to Svetlana Kerpin. I saw a specific place she was looking at - _here_ in Paris - and a glimpse of her in a mirror. I was then able to track her down.' He paused. 'It was remarkably easy actually.'

Harry's ears pricked up. He shifted forwards, an intense expression on his face. 'So you're saying this poor lady was connected to your wife?'

'By the time I got to speak to her, it was too late to find out. She was already dying.'

Harry checked his watch. 'That reminds me. I'm actually waiting to hear from the Muggle _gendarmerie_. My inside man was securing a piece of evidence they've unearthed, which might be important to this investigation.'

Draco's eyes widened with interest.

Harry stood up, flipping a mobile phone from his pocket, with an apologetic smile. 'For Muggle business,' he explained. 'I'll see if I can chase him up.'

The door slammed shut leaving Hermione and Draco alone.

Hermione found she was suddenly unable to meet Draco's eye. She gazed instead out of the window beside her, over the dark slate rooftops of the adjoining building, and the mouse-grey sky spliced with streaks of desultory sunshine, rapidly darkening to dusk.

She could sense he was staring at her.

'So tell me,' Draco said, finally breaking the silence between them. 'Were you always intending to run to Potter the moment my back was turned?'

'No, HE contacted ME.' She dragged her eyes from the view outside to face him. 'You must have mentioned myname…along with a whole lot of other stuff…when you were ill.'

It was Draco's turn to look away.

'This wasn't a set-up, if that's what you're thinking.'

He smiled, returning his gaze to meet hers. 'So I bet you, Weasel and Potty have split your sides, laughing at my expense,' he said in cold, laconic tones. His eyes were a hard, burnished silver.

'Don't be ridiculous. Why would we do that?'

'Now you know what I am.'

'What you…whatever do you mean?' she asked, genuinely perplexed.

'A fucking half-blood.'

Hermione laughed in relief. 'Don't be stupid. That's nothing to be ashamed of.'

'Yes it is. After _everything_… It's embarrassing.'

She sighed in vexation. 'I'd have thought your current predicament would be much more taxing for you – but oh no, the purity of your blood is what bothers you most. How predictable.'

Draco crossed his arms peevishly and stared fixedly at the bottle of butterbeer on the table.

'You do realise you were cured with MUGGLE BLOOD,' Hermione added, suddenly seeking to rile him. 'You're probably as _mudblooded_ as me now, Malfoy.'

He flung her a contemptuous look, then grabbed his beer. He didn't drink though, preferring to methodically scrape off the gold embossed Belton's Butterbeer label.

'Ron doesn't know actually,' Hermione added, in more soothing tones.

'That I have Gimlott's?'

His frankness momentarily disarmed her. 'You don't have Gimlott's, Draco.'

'As good as.'

'No – your father has Gimlott's. It doesn't mean you'll get it too.'

Draco closed his eyes resignedly, and rocked his head against the back of the armchair.

'I was shot with the bloody stuff.'

'And now you're cured.'

He snapped his eyes open. 'How does that make sense? Why would _diluting _the magic in my blood make me better?'

'What do you mean?'

'I thought Gimlott's _weakened_ magic. The mediwizards told me, that they now think it's the other way round… Kind of like the tap's been left on -'

'An overdose?'

'Exactly.'

They didn't have time to ponder this any further, as Harry re-entered the room, a victorious look on his face. He was clutching an envelope, which he threw onto the table in front of Draco.

'Open it, Malfoy,' Harry ordered. 'It's addressed to you. The Muggles spotted Svetlana Kerpin on CCTV posting this, so my contact retrieved it for us.'

Draco gave Hermione an oddly stricken look. She guessed he already knew what he would find.

'Go on,' she urged.

He ripped into the envelope and tipped a silver rose onto the black, lacquered table. The rose sparkled in the waning light.

He stared at it, shiny-eyed, for what felt like an eternity.

Eventually, he extended a single, long tapering finger and tentatively prodded the pendant. Then he scooped it up and cradled it in his palm.

'It's one of those, isn't it?' Harry said, pointing at the silver rose charm dangling from the chain around Draco's neck.

'Yes.'

'Maybe that explains the connection to Paris,' Hermione murmured.

'Perhaps,' Draco sighed. 'In the past they've been posted from London, Rouen, Montreux - even Moscow.' Hermione noticed a pulse was throbbing violently in his temple. 'Please excuse me,' he said in a quiet, husky voice. He slowly levered himself out of the armchair, and moved unsteadily towards the bathroom. The door locked shut behind him, followed by the sound of rushing water.

'What was all that about?' whispered Harry.

'Katya… Again,' Hermione said, a little afraid of the mixture of emotions welling up inside her.

'Oh. I see,' Harry said blankly. Then, after a beat. 'Actually, no – I don't get it.'

Hermione took a deep breath. 'Since she disappeared, he's continued to receive these silver roses. They're from a necklace she used to wear. He assumes it's Katya who's sending them.'

'Not some old lady.'

'Quite.'

Harry mulled this a moment. 'Maybe she's sending the roses on Katya's behalf – like a courier?'

'That's – that's possible.'

The water had stopped running in the bathroom. Hermione guessed Draco could hear their conversation.

The door clicked open and Draco stepped outside. He momentarily pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed tightly shut, almost as though he was warding off a headache, then looked straight at Harry, his face hard and blazing.

'Okay, Potter. You win. Here's what we'll do.'

Harry nodded.

'As soon as this murder business is cleared up and I'm free to get out of this place…' Draco eyed the candy-striped apartment with unalloyed disgust, 'I'll covertly investigate my father-in-law. I'll be your undercover spy… I'll tell you anything you want to know about Ephraim, about Gilgad Inc, I'll steal any information you want me to, I'll visit any site, anywhere in the world. I'll work with you every step of the way, until you feel satisfied we've arrived at the truth – whatever that maybe.'

Harry looked jubilant.

'But, it's on one condition.'

'Go on.'

Draco cleared his throat. 'On condition – that you help me find my wife.'

Harry paused before speaking. 'Okay, Malfoy. You've got yourself a deal. You help us, and we'll help you.' He glanced anxiously at Hermione, then continued, weighing his words carefully. 'But you have to be aware…you might not like what we find. She's been gone a long time. And these roses -'

'Yes, I know,' Draco said hastily. 'She might be dead.' He'd never openly acknowledged that, Hermione thought mournfully. 'But I need to know the truth. I need to know why the hell she walked away with our child, without any bloody explanation.' There was a savage gleam in his eye that surprised her.

Draco looked at Harry, then Hermione. 'And I can't do this alone anymore.'

There was a long silence, eventually broken by Harry. 'I'm so sorry, Malfoy. I didn't know,' he said in sober tones. He seemed genuinely shaken.

Draco gave a rueful, almost apologetic shrug. 'That there was a child? Not many people did. Katya was pregnant when she left.'

Harry stared at the black, lacquered table, as if collecting his thoughts. 'Right then, Malfoy,' he said. 'Starting tomorrow, we'll go back to where we found you with Svetlana Kerpin, and see if we can re-trace your steps. We'll take it from there.' He turned to Hermione. 'How's that sound to you?'

Hermione was unable to reply immediately.

Something had jarred inside of her; a strangely unwelcome flood of feeling.

It was only later, once she was lying sleepless in bed, that she realised, with a start, what had bothered her so greatly. The jarring emotion that had chimed through her, when Draco had begged for their help to find his wife, had been jealousy.

XXX

'So this is the spot?' Hermione asked, gazing disconsolately at the concrete quay where Svetlana Kerpin had died.

Draco nodded, a grim expression on his face.

He looked paler and washed-out compared to yesterday. His eyes were a faded gouache grey, reflecting the colour of the River Seine, which in turn reflected the sky above, which was thick with dank, grey clouds threatening rain.

Clearly Harry had taken advantage of Auror HQ's generous expense account, to get Draco properly kitted-out. He was wearing a vintage, Burberry trench coat, in black leather, which accentuated his silvery-fair hair. The overall effect was both striking and a little menacing, Hermione thought uncomfortably.

Hermione surveyed their surroundings. They were standing at the tip of the Ile St. Louis, at the far end of a small, triangular park, bordered by scrubby bushes. From the apex of this parkland, they had perfect views of both opposite riverbanks, to their left and right. Both banks were trafficked and busy, the waterway glutted with pleasure-boats steaming merrily past.

'Surely there were witnesses, Harry,' Hermione said.

'It was Christmas Day. Hardly anyone was about.'

'Wouldn't it be more efficient, if we just WATCHED Malfoy's memory?' Hermione said. She shivered, as a raw breeze whipped across them, stinging her cheeks.

'We've tried that,' Draco said drolly, an odd expression on his face. He seemed to be both smiling and frowning at the same time. 'Didn't work too well.'

'Didn't work at all,' Harry added. 'Malfoy needs to revisit his memories the old fashioned way. We have to draw them out… The Muggle police have evidence that he flew into Paris from Boston on Christmas Eve. But after that, there's no trace of him.'

'It's all a bit of a blur.' Draco desperately scanned the parkland and the riverbanks beyond, as if searching for clues, then gazed sullenly at the patch of concrete where they were standing. 'I remember the weight of her in my arms though. I couldn't hold her and fell to my knees.'

'Did she say anything?' Hermione said.

'Don't remember. Wish I did,' Draco said, an impassioned look on his face. 'I must have blacked out, because the next thing I know, there's this scary-looking bloke with a bloody great scar on his face, leering over me in the hospital.' He shot a nervous glance at Harry. 'And I don't mean you, Potter. It was some healer chap.'

Harry bit back a smile. 'That was the guy who saved your life, actually.'

Draco chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, and then rubbed his forehead, soothing his temples.

'Are you feeling alright?' Hermione asked, concerned.

He gave her a wan smile. 'Knackered,' he said. 'Didn't sleep a wink last night.'

Me neither, she thought inwardly, although she imagined her reasons for chronic insomnia were pretty different to Draco's.

'So, Malfoy. Let's try and remember what happened before you got here,' Harry said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were flint-hard and probing.

Draco looked behind them, back towards the entrance of the park. He pondered a moment, and then made a decision. 'Follow me,' he said gruffly.

Harry and Hermione glanced warily at each other, but did as he asked.

Draco walked purposefully towards Boulevard Henri IV, the main road that ran alongside the entrance to the park. He stopped to scrutinise a cream stone monument, flanked by reclining statues. There was a green wooden bench next to the monument.

'Here,' he said definitively, pointing to the bench. 'I was lying down here.'

Hermione looked back at where they'd just walked from. The precise site where Draco had been found with Svetlana dying in his arms, was now hidden from view by dusty clumps of foliage.

'Was Svetlana with you?' she asked.

Draco vehemently shook his head. 'No. Definitely not.' He looked beyond the entrance gate to the park, towards the street.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to remember.

'I must have been following her.' He turned to Hermione, inspiration lighting up his eyes. 'Yes. I vaguely remember it now. She was a small, shuffling sort of figure…'

'Go on.'

'But she wasn't alone.' He drew closer, holding Hermione's gaze with his own. 'There were two guys, tailing her.'

'Well, if they were our killers, they had to be wizards. Did you recognise them?' Harry said.

Draco returned his gaze to the street beyond the gate. A bus ground to a loud, juddering halt to their left, enabling a woman with a pushchair to clamber aboard with some difficulty.

'I don't know. I was barely able to keep up with them, so I never got a proper look. But I must have felt a need to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, which is why I ducked down; tried to vanish myself.' He paused again, staring at the park gate with such ferocity, it was as though he was trying to blow it off its hinges.

'Come with me,' he mumbled, gently tugging Hermione's coat-sleeve. They walked onto the bridge, Pont Sully, which spanned the Seine between the island and Paris's Right Bank, which was actually on their left. Harry dawdled slightly behind. To Hermione's surprise, he was taking photos of the site using his Muggle mobile phone.

Draco came to a halt by the stone balustrade that lined the bridge. He leant against the balustrade, peering into the churning grey water below. Hermione joined him. The loud chugga sound of a pleasure boat crammed with tourists rumbled beneath them.

'Thinking about it,' he said softly, almost to himself. 'I'm sure I saw a boat.'

Hermione tipped forwards to look. 'Where?'

'Over there.' Draco sidled closer, pressing his body against her. He placed his right hand on her back and extended his left arm to indicate the left hand side of the island. This meant she was virtually encircled by him. She felt irradiated by the warmth of his body.

'Listen. Hermione,' he breathed in her ear.

Her heart jumped inside of her. Hot saliva swirled into her mouth.

His face was bent so close to hers, she could feel his breath curl against her cheek. Her skin felt wet and warm, in sharp contrast to the chill January air.

'I really need to talk to you,' Draco said, his eyes burning into her face. 'It's important.'

Hermione barely had time to compose herself to reply before Draco brusquely pulled away, and continued to stare at the river. Harry's footsteps were fast approaching.

'What – what sort of boat was it?' Hermione stammered, primarily for Harry's benefit.

'Not one of those,' Draco said, pointing to the pleasure boat, which had veered leftwards, to disgorge its occupants on the opposite bank. 'Unless I was hallucinating.'

He glanced about, his eyes alighting on a small white house, which stood at the corner of Quai d'Anjou and Rue Saint-Louis En L'ile. 'Okay, so that rings a bell,' he said, under his breath.

They waited for a pause in the traffic, and all three crossed the road.

Draco stared at the house.

The road stretching to their right at this junction, comprised fine, stone buildings and a pleasant riverside walk, whilst another road, Rue Saint-Louis En L'ile, which stretched to their left, was half cast in shadow, courtesy of the tall, hulking houses which faced off across its narrow width.

'Right. I think I've got my bearings now,' Draco muttered. He sped off down Rue Saint-Louis En L'ile, Harry and Hermione close behind. Moments later they crossed a road, then another, then continued, moving away from the fine, grand stone houses closer to the riverside, towards a line of bijou restaurants and cafes and shops.

There was a church ranged to their left, displaying a large white clock that jutted out into the street ahead of them. The faint strains of choral singing drifted ethereally towards them, caught on a breeze. Hermione registered that a church service must be underway; it was Sunday, after all.

'That's it,' Draco said excitedly, jabbing his finger skywards at the clock looming over them. 'That's what I saw when the Hexmouth Witches cast the spell on Katya's rose.' The church was attached to a boy's school. Next to a green iron gateway leading into the heart of the building, there was a small yellow post-box affixed to the wall, and a blue sign, 'Bibliotheque Jeunesse: Ile Saint-Louis.'

'This was what brought me to Paris,' Draco continued.

'Well, I'm glad you recognise it,' Harry said. 'Because this is the post-box where Svetlana posted Katya's rose.'

'Didn't you say the Muggle police have CCTV footage?'Hermione said to Harry.

'Yes. From a security camera.' Harry looked around, and then pointed to a camera peeking out from under the awning of a busy restaurant with gleaming red shutters that faced the school and the post-box. 'Probably that one. Unfortunately the camera didn't catch where Svetlana headed next.'

Draco studied the restaurant with interest.

'That place means something to me… I wonder if the view Svetlana had of _here_,' he indicated the church, 'came from _there_?'

'Maybe you thought that on Christmas Day too? Let's see if anyone remembers you – or even better - _her_,' Harry suggested.

However, no sooner had they walked through the restaurant door, than a harried-looking waitress, wearing ostentatious, peacock feather earrings, blocked their path.

'No way!' she said, in a broad Australian accent. 'There's no way I'm letting YOU in here.'

She was glaring furiously at Draco.

Draco looked dumbfounded. 'You – you remember me?'

'How could I forget?' she shrieked. 'You pretty much ruined our Christmas Lunch sitting!' She furtively looked behind her then back again. 'Don't let the manager see you. He'll have your guts for garters - literally.'

'What did I do?' Draco said helplessly.

'You don't remember?' She eyed him quizzically. 'Well, maybe that's not surprising, the state you were in.' She then looked him up and down, her expression softening. 'You look tonnes better though, I must say.'

Harry intervened. 'Look, we're trying to track down someone who might have been a customer on Christmas Day. Someone our 'friend' here might have met.'

The waitress pursed her lips suspiciously. 'You police?'

'No, we're investigating a will,' Harry said hastily, 'we're looking for a Svetlana Kerpin. We believe she's come into some money.'

The waitress's face brightened. 'Wow. A lot of money?'

'A fair bit,' Harry said. 'Do you know her?'

'Elderly? Speaks foreign?'

'She's probably Russian,' Harry said.

'Ah, yes.She's a regular,' the waitress said. 'Comes in for coffee most mornings.' She pulled a face. 'Not lately though…' She turned on Draco. 'Not since _you_ were bugging her big time...'

Draco looked nonplussed. 'I was?'

'Yup. You practically chased her outta here! Just moments before my manager had YOU chucked out.' The waitress shook her head in wonder. 'You really can't remember?'

'No,' Draco said sadly. 'Sorry.'

'Did she live round here?' Hermione asked.

The waitress rolled her eyes in thought. 'Probably. Not entirely sure where though….' There was a commotion as a bunch of diners exiting the restaurant pushed past them, forcing them onto the street. The waitress glanced nervously back inside. 'Hey, I've got to get back to work.'

'Sure,' Harry said. 'Just one more thing. Have you worked here long?'

'Yeah, about eighteen months or so. The never-ending road-trip!'

'And did Svetlana always come here alone?'

'Hey, you said _one_ more question!' The waitress admonished in mock exasperation. 'Okay, let's see. There was this girl – early twenties or thereabouts - sometimes came in with Svetlana. They seemed pretty close, so I figured she was a niece or a granddaughter or something. Hasn't been in lately though.'

'What did she look like?' Draco asked urgently.

The waitress thought for a moment. 'Can't remember _exactly_…but she was nice-looking. Had lush, reddish hair; really made her stand out.'

'Thanks. You've been very helpful,'Harry said politely.

'Yeah…and there was another woman,' the waitress blithely continued. 'That was when I first worked here, but she hasn't been in for a _long_ while. Sweet little thing. Fit to pop.'

'_Fit to pop_?' Draco repeated, a confused look on his face.

'Yeah, she was getting pretty big,' the waitress said, curving her hand over her stomach in crude explanation.

Draco's eyes darted from side to side as he processed this information.

'You mean – she was pregnant,' he rasped. The colour momentarily faded from his face.

'You okay?' the waitress fretted. 'You're not going to have a funny turn on me again, are you?'

'No, he's fine,' Hermione said, spontaneously slipping her hand into Draco's. He gripped her hand hard in return.

'Carrie!' yelled a voice from inside the restaurant '_Vite!_'

Carrieglanced behind her. 'When you find Svetlana, give her my best, will you?'

'Of course,' Hermione said, as they turned away.

'Hey, you know what?' Carrie said, stopping them with a wide, toothy smile. 'Svetlana might be on one of those boat trips she loved to go on?'

'What sort of boat trips?'

'She sometimes took the boat from Quai Bethune, here on the island…it only passes through once every couple of weeks or so. It's one of those cruisers…you know…heads out of the city and up the Seine somewhere.'

'Do you have a leaflet or an advert we could look at?' Harry said, a keen look in his eye.

The waitress pulled a sour face. 'Not anymore, sorry. But I can remember the boat's name if that's any help?'

'Please,' Draco said.

'La Lena.'

Walking down Rue Saint-Louis En L'ile, as they headed purposefully back to the quayside park, Hermione realised she was still holding hands with Draco.

She blushed furiously and swiftly disentangled her hand from his warm grasp, though Draco's hand continued to bounce against hers as they walked.

'Sorry...wasn't thinking,' she said in hushed tones, fearing he'd think she was coming on to him.

'About what?' he replied, in a low whisper, which somehow made her feel even more self-conscious than before. His mouth twitched in amusement.

They both glanced at Harry. Thankfully, he didn't seem to have noticed…

XXX

'See,' Draco said in triumphant tones to Hermione, 'I told you there was a boat!'

Ahead of them was a mooring and a board advertising 'La Lena.' A tall, Rastafarian man wearing a Paris St. Germain football strip,was nailing an orange notice to a wooden post.

'Go on then, Potter,' Draco urged in sardonic tones. 'Time to dazzle us with your fluent French skills.'

Harry gave him a resentful look, and scuttled over to the Rastafarian, engaging him in stilted conversation.

Hermione and Draco watched Harry's efforts in silence.

Draco eventually gave up, choosing instead to stare at the murky river waters lapping the quayside.

'You okay?' Hermione asked nervously.

'I think so.' He turned to face her. 'Kind of… apprehensive, I guess.' They locked eyes. Hermione's stomach instantly flip-flopped and her chest felt tight. His eyes were too bright, too intense. Almost as though they were penetrating her mind.

'I – I guess you assumed Svetlana's pregnant friend was Katya.'

'I bet you did too.'

She nodded, peeling her eyes away from his.

'I can't help wondering why Katya – if it_ was_ her - never visited Svetlana, once she'd given birth?' Draco mused.

'Maybe she did? After all, there had to be some kind of continuing connection between them, because Svetlana's posted one of Katya's roses.'

'Unless she STOLE it – maybe even ALL of them?' There was a dark look in Draco's eye, which was slightly frightening.

'I suppose that's a possibility,' Hermione said in slow, deliberate tones. 'But really Draco, we just don't know.'

Harry bounded over, a grin pasted on his face.

'That chap was very helpful.' He ushered them away from the riverside, back to the park. 'He says 'La Lena' hasn't been in operation since Christmas, and is currently being renovated at a place called Port-Mort.'

'Is that in Paris?' Hermione asked.

'No. Normandy.'

'We should go,' Draco said, buttoning up his trench coat purposefully.

'Most definitely,' Harry said, a twinkle in his eye. 'La Lena is operated by a woman – a _redhead_ apparently - called Rozella Gagnon.' He gave them a meaningful look. 'If Svetlana's been regularly travelling on her boat, then she's bound to know her quite well.'

'She might even be the woman who was visiting Svetlana here in Paris?' Hermione suggested.

Harry glanced at his watch. 'Okay, it's going to be quicker and easier to fly. I'll need to requisition some broomsticks from Auror HQ and a wand for Malfoy.'

'_Broomsticks_?' Hermione gasped. She gawked miserably at the rain-sodden clouds, shuddering at the tangible dampness permeating the air.

'Yes, Hermione, _broomsticks_,' Harry said coolly. 'You can share mine, if you don't think your flying skills are up to scratch.'

Hermione flinched at Harry's unexpectedly acerbic tone.

'Come ride with me, Hermione,' Draco said kindly. 'Make sure I don't make a break for it.' He gave Harry a stern look. 'If that's alright by you, Potter?'

Harry frowned. 'No it's not, Malfoy. I'm tethering your broomstick to mine. And Hermione sticks with me.'

CHAPTER TRACKS: **"A Pain That I'm Used To"** by **Depeche Mode**

"**I know"** by **Placebo**

Many thanks to my beta, Lou.


	22. Foret La Folie

_**Draco and Hermione get lost in a forest…**_

22. **Foret-La-Folie **

Hermione hated broomstick travel at the best of times, but tethering the two broomsticks together, had made this a particularly choppy and uncomfortable journey all-round.

To make matters worse, she was convinced they'd been tailed by three large crow-like objects - just about discernible through the thin drizzle and gauzy, grey cloud-cover - from the moment they left Paris.

The crows had felt oddly comforting at Wisteria Cottage, but she wasn't sure she wanted Jeroboam to know their every move; he certainly hadn't shown himself to be fond of Draco, and she knew the evil Los Rojos were capable of.

However, as they approached Port-Mort, the teasing red at the corner of her eyes, flickered and faded, as the crows swooped out of view.

XXX

'La Lena' was a ramshackle pleasure boat, moored next to a solitary wooden cabin, and a cluster of bare-looking willow trees which bordered the mud-stained waters of the River Seine.

They hid their broomsticks in a thicket, a hundred metres or so from the riverbank. A dirt track, churned into muddy ruts by a black Land Rover parked close by, led to the river.

'You alright?' Harry said to Draco.

Draco nodded, though the pale, pinched look on his face spoke otherwise.

They cautiously approached the boat. A woman laden with a towering pile of linens in her arms, tottered down a wooden gangway, and headed straight towards them.

She only spotted them once she'd arrived at the Land Rover, and flipped open the boot, to stow the linens.

'Oh,' she said, eyes round in surprise. Clearly this particular tract of river was unaccustomed to strangers. 'Est-ce-que je peux vous aider?' she asked, collecting herself.

She wasn't Katya, Hermione instantly thought. But she might well be the 'redhead' mentioned by Carrie the waitress. She was tall and slender, with lustrous auburn hair.

Harry stepped forwards and introduced himself in French.

'Etes-vous Rozella Gagnon?' he asked.

'Mais oui.'

Harry embarked, in faltering French, on an explanation for their visit. He seemed a little unnerved by her.

Hermione caught the name 'Svetlana Kerpin,' at which point the redheaded girl raised a hand to stop him mid-flow.

'Sorry, I cannot help you. I know not of whom you speak,' she said in heavily accented English.

'Are you quite sure about that?' Harry pressed.

'_Absolument_. Now if you would excuse me.' She smiled politely, and swiftly beat a retreat, moving with a subtle, feline grace towards the cabin.

Harry shrugged helplessly at Hermione and Draco.

'For fuck's sake,' Draco muttered under his breath. He strode purposefully after the redhead's receding figure.

'Hey, Madame!' he shouted.

She instantly halted, swinging round to face him. She had clear, glossy hazel eyes, which perceptibly widened as she properly studied Draco.

She pursed her lips haughtily. 'It's _Mademoiselle_.'

'Can we just ask a few questions?' Draco pleaded. He looked a forlorn figure. His hair was dank and limp, his eyes a faded smoky grey, matching the dense, rain-soaked clouds, in the sky above them.

Rozella heaved a baleful sigh. 'You have three minutes, I have an appointment elsewhere,' she said in terse tones.

XXX

The cabin was filthy, crammed full of maintenance tools and sloping shelves heaped with haphazardly arranged paperwork. There was a strong odour of petrol emanating from three large plastic containers crouched in the corner. A table was slumped against a wall, strewn with even more paperwork, a dead spider plant in a cracked terracotta pot, and a discarded paper coffee cup. Dusty cobwebs splayed across a window.

'Why do you ask about this Svetlana Kerpin?' Rozella asked impatiently. She leaned against the makeshift table as she spoke, pulling off a pair of mud-encrusted Hunter wellies.

'She's dead, I'm afraid,' Harry said.

Rozella blinked rapidly, absorbing this information. She rummaged in a bag, which was under the table, pulling out a pair of smart, high-heeled leather boots.

'I see,' she said, donning the smart boots and bending over to tie the laces. Her abundant red hair cascaded forwards; a thick veil between herself and the three strangers. 'Mais vraiment, monsieur. Like I said, I do not know of this woman.'

'We believe she was a regular passenger on your boat,' Harry said.

'And yet, I still don't recall the name,' Rozella huffed, as she struggled to secure the laces on her boots.

She stood up, scooping her hair off her face in one slick movement, whipping it over her shoulder. 'Of course, it is very sad that this poor woman is dead,' she said, looking Harry directly in the eye.

'She was murdered,' Draco said in blunt tones. His voice resounded around the cabin. 'Tortured to death…'

'That - that is horrible.' Rozella shivered, rubbing her arms as though she was cold. 'But really, I cannot help you in this matter. I know nothing.'

She turned to Harry. 'Why do you come here telling me these things?' she asked, a shrewd, suspicious look on her face. 'Are you _gendarmes_?'

Harry slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a business card for her. 'Sorry, I should have said. We're working with the police.'

She stared at the card. '_Renseignements Generaux_? The police think this is a matter of national security?'

'Potentially,' Harry said in halting tones.

Rozella tried to return the card to Harry, but he gestured to her to keep it instead.

'How often does 'La Lena' make the trip from Paris?' Hermione asked, her fingers skating over the dishevelled piles of paperwork, precariously perched on the table. She started thumbing through a pile of orange pamphlets. They were timetables.

'About once every ten days,' Rozella said.

'Can I take one of these?' Hermione said, brandishing an orange timetable. She quickly scanned the names of the towns the timetable listed. 'There's no mention of Port-Mort.'

'This is where we fix up the boat when it has a problem, or needs refurbishment. The passenger service is Paris to Rouen.'

'So Svetlana Kerpin would have got off in Rouen?' Harry asked.

'It is possible.' Rozella paused. 'As I don't know of whom you speak, it is difficult to answer correctly.'

'What's the most popular stop?' Hermione asked.

'St Andeleys is very pretty, but…Vernon… that is probably our most popular destination. It is but a short journey from there to Giverny.'

'Monet's house.'

'_Exactement._ It's what the tourists like to see. Maybe your Svetlana Kerpin was an art lover?'

'I imagine she probably travelled too often on 'La Lena' to be classified as a typical tourist,' Hermione mused. 'Maybe you remember an older lady who frequently got off at one town in particular, say…' she trailed her finger down the list of towns… 'Conflas or Caudebec-en-Caux or Honfleur?'

She quickly glanced at Draco and Harry, hoping they were watching Rozella for any reaction she might have shown to any of these names.

'Where do _you_ live?' Draco asked abruptly.

Rozella blushed hotly. 'I – I don't see what that has to do with anything.'

'Okay – let me rephrase that,' Draco said. 'Where is…' he took one of the orange timetables and scanned the masthead, '…the head office for La Lena River Cruises?' He sneered at their current surroundings. 'It can't be _here_. There isn't even a telephone or a computer.'

Rozella folded her arms, keeping her eyes averted from Draco.

'Am I under suspicion here?' she said to Harry, clearly assuming he was the man in charge.

'Not at all,' Harry said blithely. 'But it would be useful to know…for the record…'

Rozella heaved a sigh of irritation. 'Foret-la-Folie. It's a village, up-river.'

She plucked a business card out of a slim leather wallet, which she handed to Harry. 'If you need to speak to me further, I can be contacted on this number.'

She eased off the waxen green jacket she'd been wearing, revealing skin-tight jeans and a finely knit cream cashmere, which moulded flatteringly to her trim but curvy figure.

'Now, if you'd please excuse me, I really have somewhere I need to go.'

She grabbed a brown suede jacket and a wad of keys, tossed her hair over her jacket collar, and headed outside. She waited at the open door.

It was clearly an instruction for them to leave.

XXX

'Where's your vehicle?' she asked in sharp tones.

'We walked,' Harry said.

She eyed them strangely, then hoisted herself into the black Land Rover and sped off, whisking the dirt track into a fresh slurry of mud in her wake.

Harry and Draco stared after her.

'So - what did we make of her?' Hermione asked brightly, even though she had a distinct feeling that they hadn't handled that particularly well.

'Athletic,' Harry said, a little dreamily.

'Gorgeous eyes,' Draco agreed.

Hermione gaped at them in open-jawed horror. 'You're both disgusting! We're meant to be trying to find Draco's WIFE, and a poor old woman has been horribly murdered! It's a bit tasteless, don't you think, to be slavering over potential witnesses, like dogs on heat?'

'I'm sorry, Hermione, I didn't realise there was a special code of conduct for this investigation,' Harry said, in dry, astringent tones.

'Oh, so ogling's the norm in all your other investigations, is it Harry Potter? Does Ginny know about this?' she retorted, wishing the moment she'd said it, that she could bite her tongue off.

Harry screwed up his face in confusion. 'What's got into you? She was a pretty girl. We passed comment. It's not that unnatural a thing for guys to do, you know. Anyway, let's move on. What have we learned from this?'

Draco was still staring down the empty track after the Land Rover.

'She didn't ask to see a picture,' he murmured. 'Bit odd that, don't you think?'

'Probably as well,' Harry said. 'The only one we had on file of Svetlana, is from thirty years ago. And it's magic – would've been hard to explain why she was constantly sneezing.'

'Let's see it,' Hermione said eagerly.

Harry fished it out of his pocket and handed it to her. A smattering of light rain soon coated the photo, so Hermione took shelter under the cabin's awning.

Draco peered over her shoulder to take a look too.

'Svetlana was old and grey when I saw her,' he said under his breath. 'This looks like a completely different person.'

'But look! Svetlana and Rozella are clearly related!' Hermione exclaimed. 'The hair – it's exactly the same colour, it's just the photo's faded a bit with time – and they've got the same shaped face too.'

Harry craned his head round to see. 'Svetlana's nowhere near as good-looking,' he muttered, playfully ducking the death-stare Hermione flung at him. 'But yeah, I can see a resemblance actually.'

'So she lied,' Draco said. 'She's obviously the redhead who visited Svetlana in Paris.' He marched towards the hedgerow, where they'd hidden the broomsticks. 'Come on. We'd better go after her.'

'Stop right there, Malfoy!' Harry bellowed. 'You can't just charge around aimlessly on a broomstick! And what exactly would you say when you caught up with her?'

Draco reluctantly turned back. The rain had gathered strength and was now beating relentlessly down on him.

'You can't just _accuse_ her of being related to someone – like that's a crime!' Harry continued.

'She's keeping something from us,' Draco said miserably. He flicked his now-sodden fringe out of his eyes.

'Maybe she is,' Harry said in calm tones. 'Which is why I took note of her vehicle's number plates. I'll get my Muggle contact to track her down.'

Draco chewed his lower lip, brow creased in concentration. 'Okay, here's a crazy theory. What if we've got this all wrong? For all we know, Svetlana Kerpin was a Metamorphmagus, and was cunningly disguised, every time she took a ride on that boat? This Mademoiselle Gagnon might not know Svetlana at all? I mean, she didn't seem that upset, when she heard that Svetlana Kerpin was dead.'

'Or 'tortured to death', as you rather insensitively put it,' Hermione said snippily. 'And yes, that IS a crazy theory.'

'But he's got a point,' Harry said. 'If they were close, I'd have thought she'd have shown more emotion – at least some shock.'

Hermione reflected a moment. 'Maybe she was frightened? She seemed pretty defensive all-round actually. Though that might be because she thought Draco was hitting on her!'

'When did I do that?' Draco demanded furiously.

'When you asked where she lived! It did seem to come out of nowhere.'

'Okay…' Harry said in conciliatory tones, 'so we're assuming, based on her resemblance to the deceased, and her overall _edginess_, that Svetlana MIGHT be some sort of relation, who was regularly travelling to this area on Rozella's boat. Does this get us any closer to Katya?'

'We should have just asked her outright if she knew her,' Draco griped.

'No, Malfoy,' Harry said. 'With all due respect, your wife hasn't contacted you in – how long is it now? Two years?'

'Nearly twenty-two months.'

'So… a very long time. Katya clearly hasn't wanted to be found, so if Rozella is hiding her, she's hardly likely to own up, the moment someone comes asking, is she now?'

'But SVETLANA knew Katya. That we DO know,' Draco said.

'But that doesn't mean Rozella does too,' Hermione said evenly. 'Even if they're family.'

Draco turned his attention back towards the dirt track.

Hermione studied the orange leaflet she'd picked up in the cabin. 'Well, Foret-la-Folie isn't listed as an official stop. But if Svetlana WAS family_,_ that would be her likely destination.'

'That's why I asked Rozella where she lived,' Draco said in curt tones, casting Hermione a peevish look over his shoulder. 'A little town in deepest, darkest Normandy, might be the ideal spot to hide out.'

'What's the exact address on Rozella's business card, Harry?'

Harry scrutinised it. 'It's a P.O. box and there's a phone and fax number.' He looked up at them. 'I'll call when we get back to Paris, say we'd like to come down for another little chat.'

'We should go there now, before Rozella gets home,' Draco said gruffly.

'But we haven't got an address, Malfoy. We'd be wondering around, hoping to catch sight of… well, what exactly?' Hermione said, exasperated.

'I'd know if they were there,' Draco said.

'Okay,' Harry said. 'We'll give it a go.' He frowned at the broomsticks. 'Binding the broomsticks didn't work very well on the way here,' he admitted sourly. 'So this time, Malfoy, you can ride the broomstick yourself.' He motioned to Hermione with a brief flip of his hand. 'Go with him. Make sure he doesn't play silly buggers.'

But suddenly, Draco didn't seem to be in any hurry. He rubbed his chin pensively.

'What is it now?' Harry asked brusquely.

'It's those eyes…'

'For Merlin's sake, Malfoy,' Hermione said tetchily. 'Leave it alone.'

'No… seriously. When I think about it, they reminded me of Katya – same colour, same kind of…' Draco searched for the right word, '…expression.'

'So now you're saying Rozella looks like _Katya_?' Harry said, clearly confused.

'No, not at all,' Draco said hastily. 'If anything, Katya looks more like… well… like Hermione, I suppose. A less earthy version.' He shot Hermione a nervous glance as he spoke. 'I mean that nicely.'

In any other circumstances, Hermione would have demanded more explanation, but clearly something was on Draco's mind.

'No, there was something else… I can't put my finger on it. Like a familiar echo. An emotion.' Draco blinked rapidly, lost in memory.

His face hardened. 'I think you're right, Hermione,' he said, locking eyes with her. 'I think it was fear.'

XXX

Harry used his Muggle mobile phone to quickly seek directions to Foret-La-Folie.

'It's not too far from here. Inland, about twenty miles or so.'

He swished his wand around the broomstick Draco and Hermione were set to board. A crimson glow fizzed around the broom handle.

'Right, Malfoy,' he said in a bullish voice, fixing his eyes with deep, dark intent on Draco's face. 'That's a powerful tracking spell. Any off-piste tricks, and I can find you in five minutes flat.'

He quickly transfigured a handkerchief into a parchment map, complete with directions, and an image of Foret-La-Folie, and handed it to Malfoy.

'Make sure he follows the route,' Harry said firmly to Hermione. 'If we get a move on, we can make this place in twenty minutes.' He glanced at the sky above. Even with protective charms to minimise the impact of the weather, these were far from ideal conditions to be flying. 'Better make it fifteen,' he added.

Hermione climbed on board the broomstick behind Draco. She nestled close to him, her face buried in the sweet-smelling black leather of his Burberry trench coat.

'You okay?' he said.

'I'm fine. I'm not holding on too tight, am I?' she asked, worried that her shameful glow of anticipation might transmit itself to him.

'Right,' Harry shouted from the broom alongside them. 'Stay close!' He shot upwards with impressive velocity; a dark figure spearing the rainclouds.

Hermione fastened her arms tighter around Draco's chest. She could feel the steady thump-thump of his heart beneath her fingers, and the warmth of his body suffusing through his clothes into her skin. A squibble of raw excitement pulsated through her, as Draco kick-started the broom, and they soared into the sky.

She watched 'La Lena' and the riverside cabin, rapidly miniaturising, as they climbed higher. A vast panoply of patchwork fields and dense green forests, peppercorned with clusters of houses and steely grey roads, stretched out beneath them, hemmed in by the bracken-brown expanse of the river.

My god, but it was magnificent, she thought, barely able to breathe.

A fillip of unadulterated joy swept through her.

Most incredibly, she wasn't frightened… even when they headed into a rolling bank of thick, grey cloud.

'Hold on!' Draco said, tipping them sideways as he changed direction. She strengthened her grip on him, interlocking her hands around his chest. She was acutely aware of how her body was pressed hard against him, wondering if he could feel the shape of her breasts through his thick leather coat.

She could barely see Harry's dark shape motoring ahead, as he pierced bullet-like, through cloud after cloud. Plumes of wispy grey moisture flowed behind him like contrails.

'Are you ready?' Draco yelled.

'Ready for what?' But no sooner had she spoken, than he accelerated dramatically, veering rightwards, then leftwards, weaving between the clouds. The broomstick dipped from dense, grey froth into blinding Technicolor, as the world beneath them suddenly splashed into view, before they raced back into the clouds.

Hermione screamed in elation, her hair streaming behind her. She hugged Draco tighter, fearing that she might slide away. His hand, large and surprisingly warm, encased hers, which meant he was now flying single-handed. Normally, she would have been terrified, but not today… she didn't want to lose the feeling of his skin against hers.

'This is amazing,' she breathed, her mouth warm against Draco's ear. Her chest felt swollen with an unfathomable, bubbling glee.

She tightly closed her eyes, aware of a burning bright white light spooling through her, filling her mind. It felt glorious.

It had to be Draco. It had to be… She'd never felt like this before when she'd been flying. Usually, she was bottled up with chilly nerves. But this was pure, scintillating sensation.

He surged upwards, through the cloud, breaking into a world of pristine crystalline blue. Hot rays of sunshine dappled her eyelids. The wind gently tickled her cheeks. She moaned in pleasure, face buried in Draco's neck, relishing the explosion of white, lapping the edges of her mind. She felt lost in a fantasy of feeling…

Suddenly, his hand grasped hers tightly, and he plunged the broomstick into a hair-raising, steep descent. She snapped her eyes open, catching a brief glimpse of azure blue skies, before they dived full-pelt into thick, grey cloud.

Draco leant forwards, and she automatically followed, ghosting his body with her own. Cool rain sprayed her cheeks then faded away.

The broomstick ducked and rolled, circling the upper summits of tall trees that suddenly crashed into view, before it pitched forwards at an awkward angle, hurling them into a precipitous, unstoppable fall.

Hermione yelped, clutching frantically at Draco's arms and the lapels on his coat. A motley blend of browns and greens and greys was whirling into view; a helter-skelter kaleidoscope of colour dashing to meet them, getting ever larger and all-encompassing. Unavoidable.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable collision. Draco swung round to face her, encircling her in his arms, and together, they tumbled heavily onto the ground, mere moments before the broomstick smashed heavily into a tree.

Hermione and Draco landed in a pile of damp leaves, softening their fall.

Legs entangled, bodies pressed together, they lay quietly - aware only of the sounds and smells of the forest and their own heaving breaths.

'Hermione,' came Draco's voice, his breath hot on her cheek. He had a slightly stunned expression. His leather coat had been torn open, and there was a streak of mud on his forehead. 'I'm so sorry. I was showing off.'

'I loved it,' she said, gently brushing away the dirt from his face.

A burst of wind rattled through the trees above them, shimmying raindrops in all directions, dripping onto their hair and faces. A single stream of cool rainwater trickled from her hairline, slowly down her nose, onto her lips.

Draco softly slid his mouth against hers, his tongue sweeping the raindrop away, gently nudging her lips open.

Now's the time to stop, she told herself. It's now or never.

But she couldn't. She wanted this too much.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, sighing into his mouth, sinking into his warmth, tugging gently at his lower lip with her teeth.

She could feel his body tensing, the breath hitching in his chest.

'You're fucking killing me,' he growled, flipping her forcefully onto her back, into the sea of leaves, which squelched mushily under their weight.

His lips muscled hers into a heated, urgent kiss. God, she needed this so badly, she thought, drowning in the exquisite sensation of his tongue exploring her mouth, and the crushing pressure of his body.

She was rudely jolted back into reality, by the sharp crackle of breaking twigs in the undergrowth.

Harry! she thought, a tremor of alarm slicing through her. She sat bolt upright, shoving Draco off her in panic, and twisted round to peer at the bushes, expecting Harry to come bounding through them.

'We've got five minutes before the tracker spell kicks in, Hermione,' Draco said huskily. He roughly grabbed her hips, dragging her onto his lap, so that she was straddling him, acutely aware of his obvious arousal, stretched hard beneath his jeans.

'Just give me five minutes,' he breathed, his wet mouth nuzzling her neck.

She opened her mouth to protest, but the only sound she made was an unintended moan.

Five minutes, she thought, five minutes in an entire lifetime… was that really so terrible? But any further thought, beyond a raw visceral need to touch him, to writhe against him, was driven out by the feel of his hands on her body, and his tongue, delicately tracing patterns on her ear.

She slipped her hands inside his coat, revelling in his heat, burning through his shirt. She sucked his neck, savouring his sweet yet salty taste, and the feel of his chest pushing against hers, as his breathing grew ever more ragged. He was trembling with excitement, his nipples taut and sensitive. He inhaled sharply, flinching a little, as she trailed her fingertips across his chest and down his back.

'Fucking hell, Hermione,' he groaned through gritted teeth, his hands gripping her buttocks, to force her harder against him. Slowly and deliberately, she ground downwards, in an effort to ease the tightening coil of aching tension building inexorably inside her, fighting an urge to whimper.

He stared at her, his eyes hard and glistening.

'Come here,' he rasped, intertwining his fingers with her hair, to force her face closer. His mouth crashed hard against hers, a fierce, bruising kiss that robbed her of the power to breath or think straight.

The white-hot heat that she'd come to associate with Draco, swirled dizzily through her mind, slowly staining pink at the peripheries… The pink darkening to a rich rosy blush, almost as though a vivid scarlet, was bleeding into the white.

Scarlet… Red… intruding on her mind… She desperately tried to blank it out.

But then, there was another sharp crunch of twigs from the bushes beside them; an unmistakeable presence…

'Shit,' she gasped, scrabbling clumsily to her feet. But standing was difficult. Her legs were shaking, and she was panting, barely able to draw breath. She collapsed heavily against a gnarled, green tree trunk.

Draco stared at her, chest heaving, a look of bewilderment on his face.

'Someone's here,' she managed to say, between breaths. She unleashed her wand, and pointed it towards the bushes, although the redness blurring her vision was fading fast.

There was a rustling in the leaves, followed by silence…

Maybe she'd imagined it?

Draco hauled himself up, wincing a little, as if in pain. His movements were tense and jerky. He grappled for the standard issue Ministry wand, Harry had provided.

'I – I think they're gone,' Hermione said, her voice shaking.

'You sure?' He looked a little queasy. He stumbled over to the bushes, flicking at the leaves with his wand, and then cast a 'Homenum Revelio.'

'No-one,' he muttered.

'Harry will be along any minute.'

Draco pulled a face. 'Can't we just run away and _hide_?' he said grumpily. 'Or better still. Find a _bed._'

'Don't be silly,' she chuckled, even though her heart was still hammering at full-pelt inside of her.

A brooding sense of guilt was gradually taking over.

'How's that silly?' Draco asked in querulous tones. 'We'd happily ravage each other senseless; you know we would.'

'No, we wouldn't,' Hermione spluttered, indignant. 'We're _married_, remember?'

Draco gave her an odd look.

'You're in total fucking denial about what's going on here, aren't you?'

'There's nothing going on.'

'Not _today_… obviously. Not with 'Mein fucking Fuhrer' about to descend on us,' he said caustically.

'That's not nice,' she remonstrated, although she was struggling not to smile. 'He's saved your life, Draco. Twice. You should be grateful.'

'Yeah, but that was a long time ago, and I'm THIS close to smashing his teeth out!' Draco indicated a wafer-thin gap between his thumb and forefinger.

'And he's helping you find your wife,' Hermione said, crossing her arms and primly puckering her lips.

'And I'm helping him too, remember? Except in MY case, if I get caught, I'm a dead man.'

'What do you mean?' she asked in tremulous tones.

'You don't know the people we're dealing with here… I do, unfortunately.' He peered at her through his fringe, which was clinging damply to his forehead, a sad, crooked smile on his face. 'Ruthless fuckers, the whole damn lot of them,' he muttered darkly.

Draco quickly scanned their immediate surroundings, then, to her surprise, he fell to his knees in front of her.

'I guess now's as good as ever,' he said in ominous tones, almost to himself.

There was an earnest look on his face that chilled her.

'I need to tell you something; but you're not going to like it.'

He licked his lower lip, marshalling his thoughts, and went for it.

'I've been lying to you,' he said candidly.

Her heart stilled.

'How so?'

'When – when I recruited you and Ron, our mission wasn't to investigate Dark Flux… Gilgad had been doing that for a very long time already. We already knew that Jeroboam's followers had been acting heavy-handed around Dark Flux sites; although I had no idea, just how fucking scary those _Rojos _bastards actually were. My mission was solely to expose you to what Jeroboam and his followers were doing –'

'I already know this, Draco,' Hermione interrupted crankily. 'Your delightful father-in-law and the_ lovely_ Sylvestra paid me a visit.'

Draco's eyes perceptibly darkened as she spoke.

'Ephraim made it perfectly clear that he expected me to do his dirty work, and formally accuse Jeroboam of all sorts of nasty stuff - and in return, I could get my old job back,' she said peevishly. 'Naturally, I refused.'

'You REFUSED?'

'Of course!' she scoffed. 'For the life of me, I couldn't see - I still DON'T see - why Ephraim didn't just accuse Jeroboam himself.'

'Because Ephraim doesn't want to look like a plotter. He thinks that would look bad for him politically.'

'Why should that matter?'

'He intends to become the next Minister for Magic.'

'But that's not possible!' Hermione said, outraged. 'He's American.'

'Doesn't matter anymore,' Draco said in droll tones. 'One of Witchell's less well-publicised changes to the statute book… Once a foreigner has lived and worked in Britain for three years - or if they marry a native – they can run for office.'

If Ephraim was the dark, murderous wizard they now feared him to be, this was truly terrifying.

Still, Draco's 'lie' hadn't been as awful as she'd feared.

'That's not all,' Draco said flatly. He took a deep breath, staring so hard at her face she felt she was getting a headache.

'Senor Asusto. The Dark Flux memory at Senor Canaro's. It was one big set-up; to get you on board, gunning for Jeroboam.'

The colour drained from Hermione's face. 'I guessed as much,' she said in low tones. 'But I didn't think YOU were in on it… At least that was what I hoped.'

'It was all very last minute. When you arrived at the airport, instead of Ron, we had to come up with something, fast. Ron had already fallen for it all – hook, line and sinker. But you - you were a trickier proposition,' he gabbled nervously in explanation. 'So I called Torquil from the airport -'

'So was it _you_, who thought of the dead baby?' she asked, eyes narrowed.

'No. That was Sylvestra, apparently.'

'SYLVESTRA?' Hermione shrilled. 'For the love of Merlin, Draco, how can you let a woman like THAT look after Scorpius? You should be ashamed of yourself!'

Draco's eyes flicked away from her, towards the thick bushy undergrowth.

'I regretted the whole thing, the moment we entered that memory,' he said in a small, quiet voice. 'I don't think I was meant to go in with you actually. But I wasn't sure what you'd find in there, and I couldn't bear the idea of you experiencing it alone…'

Hermione hardly heard him. Her mind was reeling. She had to get away.

She scrambled to her feet, and charged through the bushes, which clawed and scratched at her, into a wooded copse. The trees here were tall and straight, their branches interwoven, blocking out much of the natural light.

She could hear Draco stampeding noisily through the undergrowth.

Hermione continued to walk away from him, deeper into the thick, treacly darkness. The trees creaked and groaned in the wind, but beyond that, the forest was impenetrably silent.

Draco chased after her, seizing her arm, forcing her to face him.

'Leave me alone!' she shrieked, tearing her arm from his grasp. 'I don't want you near me.'

'Please. Let me explain.' His eyes were wide and staring, his nostrils flaring.

'You made a fool of me!' She blinked back tears of fury.

'I was doing my _job_,' he argued. 'It was a means to an end... an end I actually believed in. I genuinely thought taking Jeroboam down_ legally_, before he killed loads of innocent people, was a pretty good idea.'

'Except that involved manipulating ME,' Hermione pouted.

'Yes. Yes it did,' he said plainly.

'So I take it you knew all along, that Senor Asusto worked for Gilgad?' she said in accusing tones.

A regretful look shadowed his face.

'And you didn't think it _suspicious_, that your man on the ground, just happened to be hanging around Santa Maria, at the same time as a Dark Flux outbreak?'

'Of course I fucking did!' he fumed, his eyes glowing silver. 'And it was freaking me out... I almost wanted YOU to put the pieces together, just to confirm my worst fears. That's why I all but told you, that Asusto's memory was modified.'

'I could see that for myself, without your little _performance_,' Hermione spat angrily. 'And I suppose the scanner, was just another 'prop' in this farce of yours?'

'I had no idea it was fake,' he said in harsh, grating tones. 'And I meant it when I said I'd never heard of a Gilgad plant in Argentina… or any of the other places you showed me on that list either!'

He leant back against one of the tall trees. 'Truth is, I'm beginning to think I've been kept in the dark about a lot of things… Makes me feel like a right twat.'

A brisk, rushing sound high above, heralded a sudden urgent downpour of rain. A steady stream of rainwater was wheedling its way through the canopy of branches overhead, threatening to soak Hermione, if she didn't take cover.

Draco transfigured a random twig into an umbrella, and pulled her under the tree. He hooked his arm around her waist, determined to draw her close.

'Look, Hermione. I've been a lying, fucking bastard, I know that. But I didn't know _then_, how I would feel _now_… Everything's changed.'

The rain was getting heavier, pummelling the umbrella furiously, almost drowning out his words.

'Once you had doubts, you should have told me,' Hermione said bitterly. 'We could have done things differently. Worked it out together.'

'I know. But I was scared what you'd think.' He laughed sardonically. 'Turns out you thought I was a fucking terrorist anyway... And now I've come clean, you'll probably hate me even more.'

Hermione dragged her eyes away from him, surveying their dark, menacing surroundings. She shuddered. In contrast - and in spite of everything - Draco seemed safe and soothing.

'I don't hate you, Draco,' she said, her voice swallowed up by an odd, thickening sensation in her throat. 'I hate that you _lied _to me; but, I guess I can see why you did.'

Draco visibly relaxed.

'I'm sorry for laying all this on you. I'm not very good at this type of thing.'

'Honesty?'

'Yes… and feelings. Thinking I'm dying all the time, has obviously fucked with my head.'

Hermione gave him an awkward half-smile. 'Then maybe that's a good thing.'

'It's since we went to Argentina… I feel different. Like - like something's been switched on inside of me. Like I've been super-sensitised.' He sighed deeply. 'It's the strangest thing… All this time I've been dying, I've never felt so alive.'

He tenderly stroked her face, pushing a stray ringlet of hair behind her ear.

She pulled away from him, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of feeling welling up inside of her, and a sense of rising dread. She felt vulnerable to the darkness closing in on them.

And there was a strange green colour, seeping insistently closer...

'Harry should be here by now! We have to look for him.'

'Must we?'

'The only reason we're stuck here, in this god forsaken forest, is to help you find your wife, remember?' Hermione said in a tone of sharp rebuke. 'Sometimes I wonder if that's what you really want,' she added… particularly when you kiss me, she thought inwardly. He kissed her like she was the only woman in the world.

'I want to see my child,' he said ardently. 'But it's true... I don't know what I want anymore. I'm all mixed up.'

His eyes were hot and searching, making her cheeks glow with self-consciousness.

'Why – why's that?'

'You know why.'

Her heart beat a little faster.

'You can't say stuff like that, Draco,' she said, breathlessly.

'Yes I can,' he groused. 'I've stopped caring about the niceties.'

'Being _married _isn't just a nicety. For either of us.'

The strange green was growing progressively brighter… a blinding shard of colour distorting her vision. She closed her eyes, and rubbed her temples, trying to soothe it away.

'Hermione?' Draco cupped her cheek with his hand. 'Are you alright?'

'It's Harry!' she cried, in abrupt realisation. 'He's here!'

'How do you know?' Draco asked quizzically, but even as he spoke, Harry was blundering stormily through the bushes towards them, dragging his broomstick behind him. His hair and clothes were saturated, and he was holding Draco's broken broomstick.

He threw the splintered wood at Draco's feet.

'Don't ever pull that fucking stunt again, Malfoy,' he snarled, puce with rage. 'You're still a suspect in a murder case. And you're under MY protection.'

'We got lost.'

Harry stepped closer, jabbing his finger at Draco's chest. 'Bullshit. You veered off-course deliberately.'

'He's telling the truth, Harry. We got lost and had an accident,' Hermione said, in anguished tones.

'That was no accident,' Harry said, continuing to glower at Draco, who stared disdainfully in return. 'I don't know what your game is, Malfoy. But I don't like it.'

'Please… Harry…'

Harry cast Hermione a sidelong glance. Was that suspicion or remorse that glinted in his eye? She couldn't be sure.

'We need to find Foret-la-Folie,' Hermione continued, adopting a calm, business-like manner.

'I've already been there. It's a five minute walk.'

Draco picked up the broken pieces of his broomstick.

Harry gave him a pitying look. 'Give it up as a bad job, Malfoy. It's beyond repair,' he said, striding back towards the bushes.

Draco threw the broken broomstickto the floor, with more venom than necessary, Hermione thought. A muscle in his cheek twitched furiously.

XXX

The main and only thoroughfare of any distinction in Foret-la-Folie, comprised a stooped, medieval church, and a straggling collection of wood-timbered houses, in varying states of decay. Despite the rain, there was a dusty, desiccated air to the place. A couple of buildings were boarded-up for the winter.

'Whilst you two were having your cosy heart-to-heart in the forest,' Harry sniffed, 'I had a good old root around this place.'

What the hell did he mean by that? Hermione thought, prickling with alarm.

Harry continued, unfazed. 'I knocked on a few doors, asked a few questions, and checked out where La Lena's office usually is.' He gestured towards a squat house next-door to the church.

The place was clearly deserted.

'The company went out of business last year,' he grimaced.

'So why did 'La Lena' still operate boat trips from Paris?' Draco asked warily.

'Search me,' Harry grunted. 'There's no sign of Rozella's Land Rover here either, so I think we're best reverting to Plan A. I'll get my Muggle mate to check out her number plate and any company records, and we'll take it from there.'

Draco stared disconsolately at the eerily quiet village. 'This place is dead. Completely dead.'

'The next question, is how we get back to Paris, with only one broomstick,' Harry said snidely.

'We can always Side-Along-Apparate back to Hotel Drearsville,' Draco suggested.

'Ginny was taking the kids to The Burrow for lunch,' Hermione said, the reality of her home life taking hold of her. 'It's best I head back to Ottery St Catchpole.'

'In that case, you're better off getting yourself to Rouen. It's much closer than Paris, and there's a portkey terminal, right by the train station,' Harry said.

'Yes, I've been there; a quidditch match with Ron,' she said in long-suffering tones.

Harry's eyes lit up. 'Of course! Rouen won the European Champions League two years ago. I'm pretty sure they beat the Chudley Cannons on the way to that victory, actually.'

'Yes, they did.' How could she ever forget? Ron had drunk a bottle of firewhiskey that night, accused her of cursing the match to spite him, and wound up crying in the garden.

'Didn't they play _your _team in the final?' Harry asked Draco in jovial tones.

'The semis actually,' Draco said. 'Our keeper, Judd McCorkindale – right fucking wanker - had an atrocious game. We had to sack him after that match.'

'I remember that now!' Harry said. 'Where did he end up?'

Draco thought a moment. 'The Dundalk Dragons, wasn't it? Some _menial _side.'

'That's right! Pretty much what he deserved.'

'Hell, yeah.'

Hermione smiled. Thank god for quidditch, she thought.

CHAPTER TRACKS:** "Anyone's Ghost" **by** Silver Swans**

"**A Forest"** by **The Cure**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my original characters.

Many thanks to my beta, **Lou**.


	23. Ephraim

_**Hermione investigates Ephraim Golowitz and makes a startling discovery. Ephraim makes Hermione an offer... and Draco meets the family**_

AN: I have decided to slightly alter the corporate names of both Ephraim and Draco's companies - hope this isn't too confusing!

**23. Ephraim**

'This is why sending Rose and Hugo to Muggle school is a bad idea,' Molly Weasley intoned. She eyed Hermione sorrowfully, lips pursed tight.

'Mum's right,' Ginny said.

Hermione shot her a glare of fierce resentment. She'd hoped for more support.

'It's natural Rose should want a birthday party at home,' Ginny continued, 'but it's clearly impossible. This is so obviously NOT a Muggle house.' She scanned the kitchen of Wisteria Cottage as she spoke, with a withering look. Her eyes rested on the soft bluebell flames flickering in the fireplace, the sturdy cauldron hanging on a large cast-iron hook from the ceiling, the shelves laden with jars of obscure potion ingredients, and the enchanted scouring pad, scrubbing diligently at a stew-encrusted casserole pot. There were none of the electronic gadgets associated with Muggle households, not even a light bulb.

'All she wants is a Marizel Fairyland tea party, with just a few girlfriends, nothing more,' Hermione said sadly. 'Marizel's all the rage at the moment. Some kids TV show.' But she knew it was a hopeless case. She'd already bought Rose a Marizel Fairy dressing up costume, from a Muggle supermarket, as a pre-emptive consolation prize.

'What about having a joint birthday party with Arthur, at The Burrow?' Molly suggested. 'After all, their birthdays are only a week apart.'

'Makes sense,' Ginny agreed.

'All the family together!' Molly chortled. She fixed a beady eye on Hermione, clearly perturbed by her daughter-in-law's despondence. 'Ron's promised to be home by then,' she added, in soothing tones. 'Tana sent me an owl yesterday, saying they'd only be in Santa Fe for a few more days, and then they've got a big meeting in Savannah, with the head of the North American Quidditch League. Ron will be heading home, straight afterwards.'

Hermione smiled, feigning relief, although Ron's absence was the last of her worries. She groaned inwardly, her mind zipping through recent events, and all the secrets and confused emotions she felt burdened by. It felt like a ten-ton bomb in her brain, waiting to blow at any moment.

'Hey, Mummy!' Hugo shouted, bursting into the kitchen with all the power of a small tornado. 'James cast a spell! Colloshoo!'

As if on cue, the remaining four children – Rose, James, Albus and Lily - dashed into the kitchen, shrilly announcing James's awesome new skill.

'Really?' Hermione cried. 'But he's underage!'

'It was brilliant!' Albus enthused, his eyes round with wonder. 'He stuck Rose to the floor with this nasty, sticky gloop, for AGES!'

'Can I try? Can I try?' Hugo yelped, attempting to prise his mother's wand from her grasp.

'Absolutely not,' Hermione said in firm tones, then to Ginny. 'Strictly speaking, isn't this a _hex_?'

Ginny nodded, with an amused twinkle in her eye, clearly too enthralled by her son's precocious ability to use wandless magic, to care.

'But where did he learn it from?'

'Don't be such a fusspot, Hermione,' Molly said in clacking tones, a rapt smile on her face, as she gazed adoringly at her grandson. 'There's no real harm in it. And you forget, James is eleven this summer.'

'I'm not sure the Ministry will see it that way,' Hermione muttered.

'Hey, Granny!' James bellowed, hands outstretched.

Molly didn't have time to duck, finding herself glued to the floor for a good ten minutes.

'Thank Merlin!' Molly wheezed, once she was able to move again. 'I didn't want to miss Geraint Licklestipp on the wireless this evening. Now there's a man who knows his horticulture!' she said to Hermione. 'Today's programme is about cultivating Horkclumps, so that they don't run rampant in the garden – would mean we could finally get rid of the gnomes! They're such a menace...'

'And we need to get going too,' Ginny said, signalling to her brood. 'I promised Uncle George a visit.'

'Have you heard George's good news?' Molly asked Hermione. 'He's opening a shop, in _America_… at Greenleaf Plaza in Brookhaven!'

'Puts Diagon Alley to shame, apparently,' Ginny said proudly.

'And there's talk of _another_ shop, in that fancy new 'Mickey Mouse' mall in Colorado, that everyone's talking about!' Molly said, positively effervescent.

'_Mickey Mouse_?' Hermione asked, incredulous. 'Are you serious?'

Ginny rolled her eyes. 'Really, Hermione, haven't you seen _Fantasia_?'

'It's all thanks to his new investor,' Molly said, in ebullient tones. 'That American chap – Ephraim Golowitz – such a charmer!'

Hermione's insides chilled. 'Ephraim Golowitz? Are you sure?'

'But of course I'm sure!' Molly said tetchily. 'He came to The Burrow, just last week, for dinner.' She grinned, basking in the memory. 'What a lovely man! Heaped praise on my Pumpkin Pottage! Such a shame he's caught up with those ghastly Malfoy people. Still, business is business I suppose… And he was hugely impressed by George's latest range of confectionery. He thought the candy whistles that change colour according to your mood, were an absolute marvel, and could even be sold to Muggles!'

Hermione didn't have a chance to delve deeper, as Molly and Ginny energetically corralled the young Potters out of the house, disappointing Rose and Hugo, who had school in the morning.

'How's Harry?' Hermione managed to ask Ginny, as a parting shot.

'Hardly seen him,' Ginny replied, with a weary shrug. She planted a farewell kiss on Hermione's cheek.

Hermione had hardly heard from him either, even though she'd returned from France three days ago.

His sole communication had been by owl, cursorily informing her, that progress tracing Rozella Gagnon had pretty much ground to a halt. Her Land Rover was registered in the name of her father, Bernard Gagnon, but he – like Rozella – had been officially 'off the grid' for some years.

She tried calling Harry's mobile. There was a ringing tone, followed swiftly by a rude, monotonous burr, sounding ominously like he'd cut her off.

She had similar bad luck calling Henrik, hoping for an update on his investigation into Gilgad's suspiciously sited installations. A polite, snooty recorded voice constantly described him as 'Unavailable'.

The ten-ton bomb in her brain was ticking over with frustration.

XXX

The next day, Hermione received an owl from Padma Patil. There was no mistaking her tone of quiet desperation. Work was difficult, and there'd been no word from Tony… something Hermione found rather disquieting.

Padma wanted to meet up. She suggested Golden Square in Central London. It was a place familiar to the both of them. Occasionally, when they'd wanted to discuss work issues, far from the prying eyes and ears of the Ministry, they'd bought a sandwich and a drink at a nearby Muggle café, and had their lunch there.

They arranged to meet that Friday.

Hermione knew of an Internet café close by, where she could hopefully charge her mobile phone, and get down to some research, _Muggle_-style, of Ephraim Golowitz and Gilgad Inc.

She felt she had to be doing _something_… Ephraim's latest venture with George Weasley and his ingratiating himself with the family, had the distinct feel of an encircling manoeuvre. Any clues, any pointers, about his true personality and motives, might prove useful.

XXX

Armed with a large cappuccino, her fingers tingling with anticipation as they skimmed the computer's keyboard, she 'googled' Ephraim Golowitz.

First up, was Gilgad's corporate website. An avuncular picture of Ephraim, blue eyes sparkling with steely confidence, graced the homepage. Ephraim was described as President, having resigned as CEO a year ago – citing his move to the UK and his greater involvement with Herb Healing Ltd.

Gilgad's head office was based in Portland, Oregon, and they had a major manufacturing plant in Juneau, Alaska. Both towns, Hermione noted, were renowned for sizeable wizarding populations. The company's research division was in Athens, Ohio. Ephraim, she noticed, had graduated from the University of Ohio, and had clearly maintained strong links with his Alma Mater.

She browsed the financial pages of leading Muggle newspapers, mostly offering comment on how Gilgad was outstripping its competitors in most sectors. Ephraim was praised in universally glowing terms as a 'colossus of the business world,' 'a corporate lionheart,' 'a man for our times.'

Little seemed to be known of his background, bar an incessant 'humble beginnings' mantra, which positively screamed corporate press release, Hermione thought wryly. Ephraim was commonly described as descended from immigrant stock. His ancestor, Bronislaw Golowitz, hailing originally from Volyhnia, and of Polish-Russian extraction, arrived in America in 1909.

Most reports stated that Ephraim was born and raised in Chenooth, Minnesota. Hermione suspected Ephraim was actually from Asgard – a well-known Minnesotan wizarding town – but she doubted he'd been schooled there. He'd likely attended the Salem Institute for Magic in Massachusetts, which was considered the most prestigious wizarding school in the United States – on a par with Hogwarts – though there were other well-known schools for magic to hand, principally in Tennessee and Washington State, and on the wilder shores of Lake Superior, across the border in Canada.

She was desperate to find more information on his personal life, but there was precious little available.

Eventually, she chanced on a site, which demonstrated more interest in 'Lifestyle' than money matters. She greedily perused an archived article from the early 1990s, focusing on Ephraim's wife, Iona Hart; described in cloying terms, as the 'power behind the throne.' She was the well-connected daughter of a US Senator, and reportedly keen for her husband, to follow in her father's footsteps into politics.

The article chiefly comprised lovingly lit photos of their impressively large, Palladian-styled house in Mendocino, situated on the Californian coast, and boasting 'magnificent ocean views'.

There was an accompanying colour photo of Ephraim and his family, dating from some time earlier, likely taken around the same time as the photo Hermione had already seen of The Geneva Group, some thirty years ago. Ephraim looked fit, young and trim, and was arm in arm with Iona. She was a blonde, willowy woman, holding the hand of a small, golden-haired girl, no more than two or three years old. Hermione quickly realised this must be Sylvestra. Looking more closely at Iona's strong-boned, striking features and statuesque poise, there was no mistaking the resemblance.

Her mind wandered to Katya. There was a hint of Ephraim about her she supposed - something in the high cheekbones – but she was nothing like her mother. She squinted hard at the computer screen. She reckoned Sylvestra was the older child by about three years or so. So why wasn't Iona pregnant? Or if Katya was already born, why wasn't she included in the family photo?

She filed this thought away for later reflection, realising that she might have stumbled upon something either potentially significant, or fanciful – she couldn't decide which. What if Katya had discovered she had a different mother to Sylvestra? Might that be a reason for her to quit Malfoy Manor? Perhaps Svetlana Kerpin was a long-lost relative?

So where was Iona Hart now? Hermione wondered. She soon found a number of news articles, reporting her death, after a long, unnamed illness, in 2009. That had to be around the same time that Ephraim invested in Draco's company, Hermione figured… when Draco was dating Sylvestra.

She glanced at her watch. She was running out of time. She was due to meet Padma in less than ten minutes.

However, one particular business article - 'Gilgad Boss Quits To Focus on Family' - pulled her attention back to the computer screen in front of her.

There was no mention of Ephraim's move to the UK or Herb Healing. Instead, Ephraim attributed his decision to step down as primarily to 'focus on the welfare of his youngest daughter.'

Hermione checked the date of the article. It was dated a year ago – nine months after Katya's widely reported disappearance in April 2012.

How could Ephraim focus on Katya's welfare, if she was still missing? Hermione thought furiously.

She hastily scrolled through document after document written about Ephraim at this time, and yes, the same story was repeated across the Muggle media. Ephraim had given an interview, asserting that after a tragic breakdown, due to marital difficulties, his long-lost daughter had returned home safely, where she was recuperating with the support of her loving family.

Such blatant lies! How had he got away with it? So much for journalistic curiosity…

Was there any mention of Katya's husband, she wondered? But Draco's sole name-check, was a listing as Global Business Manager, at Herb Healing.

The harsh buzzing of her mobile phone disturbed her ruminations.

It was Henrik.

'Hermione?' he said in his rich, Danish twang.

'Hi Henrik. It's good to hear from you,' she said, sounding a little distracted. Her head was still bursting with unanswered questions prompted by her latest discovery.

'I can't talk long. I'm in New Zealand! This call will cost me a fucking leg and arm.'

Hermione smiled indulgently.

'I've found one of the Gilgad facilities I told you about.'

'You have?' Hermione asked, her heart beating rapidly.

'Yup. Slap bang next to the place where there was a sudden mass death incident last year. The whole thing's very peculiar, actually.' His voice faded momentarily, and then resumed, stronger. 'If you can, I think you should come and see it. And there's some folks out here you should talk to as well.'

Hermione racked her brain. How could she possibly do that? She couldn't just jaunt off to New Zealand... Ron probably wasn't home for another week.

But here, potentially, was the proof that Gilgad was engineering Dark Flux attacks.

Could she possibly make the trip there and back in a single day? She'd be exhausted, of course. Inter-continental portkey travel might be super-fast, but it was hellishly bad for you. And a return ticket would cost a small fortune. She certainly wouldn't have Gilgad's expense account funding _this_ particular expedition.

'Are you still there?' came Henrik's voice.

'Yes, I was just thinking… Maybe I could try to come out tomorrow?'

Henrik snorted with laughter. 'Are you speaking from England?'

'Yes.'

'Well, your flight will take at least twenty-four hours. And you'll probably have a stopover on top of that. So I was thinking of visiting a friend in Auckland over the next few days, which would give you plenty of time to fly down here at your leisure. The facility's close to a town called Wanaka in the South Island. You'd be best flying into Christchurch, or even better, Queenstown.'

'Okay, Henrik. I need to work out the logistics and get back to you.'

XXX

She was late to meet Padma, but when she arrived at their usual bench, there was no sign of her. She'd probably got held up at work, which was hardly surprising. There was always a huge backlog of stuff to get through, Hermione thought, as she delved into a brown paper bag to retrieve the sandwich she'd bought for lunch. There was no point politely waiting... She was starving.

'It's a beautiful day, isn't it? You'd hardly think this was still January, would you?' came a deep, burnished baritone, in an American accent.

Her mind had been so full of Ephraim Golowitz for the last hour; she barely felt a jolt of surprise when he sat next to her.

Instead, she had to forcibly bite her tongue, so that she didn't accuse him outright, there and then, of masterminding terrorist attacks… and of doing _something_ to his daughter, whether it was hiding her or killing her… because there had to be a damn good reason for him to feel confident enough, to spout that crap to the press.

But one look at the two beefy guys in black overcoats, looking conspicuously like Ephraim's security detail, seated on a bench close by, put paid to any outburst.

He'd have her killed in an instant if he thought she was onto him.

'Have you been following me?' she grimaced.

His face puckered, as though wounded by her insinuation. 'It's a pleasant, sunny afternoon. I fancied a stroll. And my London office is a minute's walk away.'

'Arcana?' Hermione asked, perplexed.

'No. Herb Healing. Our dear mutual friend Draco's prolonged absence, is presenting me with some difficulties, so I'm having to take a much more hands-on approach.'

Hermione had worked hard to suppress her thoughts and feelings about Draco since returning from France. But now, under Ephraim's keen, blue-eyed scrutiny, she could feel an icy slither of panic and raw emotion, churning through her gut, at the mere mention of his name.

'I've no doubt Draco will be home to help you out soon enough,' she said in trite tones.

'That would be useful…though highly unlikely, seeing as he's stuck in Paris, with your friend, Harry Potter.'

Hermione swiftly mastered her features into a cool mask of composure. 'Really, Mr Golowitz, I've no idea what you're talking about.'

She made a great show of wrapping up the remains of her half-eaten sandwich and smoothing any stray crumbs from her skirt. She'd completely lost her appetite and had a desperate urge to run, as fast as her feet could carry her.

'Now, if you would excuse me, I'm actually on my way to meet a friend…'

'Oh yes. Poor Padma Patil.' Ephraim frowned. 'She can't make your little meeting. She's been summoned to the Wizengamot, for an emergency hearing into her professional conduct. I'm afraid some pretty nasty allegations have surfaced…' He leant close, blue eyes sparkling dangerously, and whispered in deep, lugubrious tones in her ear. 'Fraud, corruption, that sort of thing.' She cast a sharp, sidelong glance at the man, smirking smarmily beside her. How could she have ever considered him attractive? There was something cold and reptilian about him, which repulsed her.

'Frankly, Hermione,' Ephraim continued in a tone of _faux_ confidentiality, 'you're better off out of that place. You should come and work for me.'

'So why did you think I would jump at the chance to get my old job back, when you suggested I spearhead a prosecution against Saul Jeroboam? What's made you change your tune?'

Ephraim's smirk froze. He clearly didn't like being challenged.

A burst of frosted, glacial blue fogged her mind, as Hermione momentarily sensed the brutish violence of the man, lurking beneath the polite, mannered surface.

'I personally believe your talents are under-utilised in that measly department you've been toiling away in for so many years,' Ephraim said, in calm, measured tones, having reined in his irritation. 'I was recommending a _superior_ position, more suited to your skills and experience.'

'I'd never work for _you_.'

'Well, if true, that's a pity…but if a life spent plodding along in the higher echelons of the Ministry's civil service is what you _really_ want, Hermione… I can make that happen too.'

'You don't have the power to offer me any such thing,' Hermione retorted, leaping up from the bench to make a quick getaway. 'So thanks for the _flattering_ offer. But I'll make my own way in the world.'

'Not so fast, young lady,' Ephraim grasped her elbow, and pulled her back down.

'As it happens, I DO have that power. You might not like to hear such a thing; it rather flies in the face of Ministry protocol, doesn't it? But such is life… I promise I'll reward you handsomely though, if you do what I ask… But the deal has changed.'

'I'm not interested,' Hermione said firmly, eyes flashing furiously. She rubbed her elbow, which was sore after being manhandled.

'Forget grassing up Jeroboam,' Ephraim sneered, with a blasé flick of his hand. 'For _now_, at least. Let's focus first on our little Paris problem…'

'I've already told you! I don't know what you're talking about!' She was increasingly conscious of Ephraim's lackeys, staring at her.

'Then you have a very short memory,' Ephraim said smoothly. 'A little dicky bird told me, that just this past weekend, your friend Potter was interviewing Draco at Auror HQ – and I was told that YOU were also present.'

Hermione crinkled her forehead in a direct pretence of outraged confusion – though her mind was working overtime. She had to at least claim half of this as true; obviously Ephraim had an inside mole, so outright denial would sound plain stupid.

'Yes, I WAS at Auror HQ… but I didn't see Draco! And I'm fairly certain Harry didn't either, because he was working with ME.'

'I've no idea what your Potter friend wants,' Ephraim said, ignoring her protestations. 'But I suspect Draco's being framed for a crime he never committed.' Ephraim shook his head regretfully. 'It seems most unfair. Particularly as I hear Draco's been extremely ill. Fatally, even.'

'Now listen here, Mr Golowitz!' Hermione said, brimming with indignation. 'I've been helping Harry with an investigation – it's _supposed_ to be top secret, but as you have some very strange ideas going on here that need to be laid to rest, I'll be open with you…'

Ephraim narrowed his eyes. 'Go on.'

'Harry is tracking a gang that is illegally trading in hellebore and asphodel,' she said, recalling Ron's excuse to the Ministry that he planned to use to explain his absence, when he went to Argentina. 'This gang communicates using a set of complex, archaic runes, which very few people can translate.' She threw him her haughtiest look, chin tilted high. 'Luckily, I'm an expert in this field, which is why I was in Paris… Sadly, I know nothing of Draco's whereabouts, although I wish him well. If you think I know anything more, you have been grossly misinformed.'

Ephraim blinked hard in surprise. 'My source is impeccable.'

'Clearly not,' she said in arch tones. She stood up to leave, aware that Ephraim's goons also rose, in tandem.

Ephraim studied her intently, an admiring smile creeping across his face.

'I really rather like you, Hermione,' he said, 'which is why, _this_ time, I'm going to believe you. But I meant what I said. You're a wasted woman. And I could advance your career _immeasurably_.' He pronounced this with dramatic relish. 'Just tell your Potter friend to leave my boy alone… I urgently need him back here.'

Hermione shrugged. 'I can do that. But I suspect Harry won't know what the hell I'm talking about.'

Ephraim levered himself off the bench, pulling himself up to his full height. He loomed over Hermione.

'Well, I'm glad we had this illuminating little chat, Hermione,' he said. He grabbed her hand with his own. 'I sincerely hope it's not our last.' He signalled to the two men in their dark overcoats, and then swept imperiously past her, and out of Golden Square.

Hermione's hand ached from the strength of his grip. She stood there for a moment, staring in stunned amazement at the statue of a Roman gladiator – or was it a god of some kind? - standing guard, at the centre of the square.

She had to call Harry and Draco immediately.

'Please pick up,' she begged. There was a nasty, wringing sensation, roiling through her gut. She didn't presume, for one moment, that Ephraim had swallowed her story. And Harry had been right all along… if there was a mole at Auror HQ, then no one could be trusted.

Luckily, Ephraim didn't seem to harbour any suspicion of Draco. That, at least, was a small mercy…

'For Merlin's sake,' she grunted in exasperation, as Harry's phone finally responded with a dead tone. 'Just switch the bloody thing on, will you?'

There was nothing for it. She had to go home, plead with Molly to watch the kids, while she got herself to Paris.

She quickly found a conveniently sheltered spot to Apparate from.

A momentary throb of alarm rippled through her. Poor Padma… Really, she should be trying to help her… But she had to prioritise. And right now, Harry and Draco's safety came first.

XXX

'I've got to visit Uncle Harry tonight, I'm afraid,' Hermione explained to Rose and Hugo, as they walked home from school.

'Can _we_ come, Mummy?' Hugo asked, swinging Hermione's arm to and fro, as he tripped along beside her.

'Not tonight darling,' Hermione said, with a sorry smile.

'I guess we're going to Granny's then,' Rose said, clearly disappointed.

'Well, I'm sure if we ask her nicely, she'll make you some treacle tarts!' Hermione said brightly. She gave Rose, who was holding her other hand, a reassuring squeeze, but it didn't seem to do the trick. Rose continued to mope, all the way back to Wisteria Cottage.

'If I'd known you wouldn't be here tonight,' she sighed, 'I could have asked Jenny Slater if I could go for a sleepover.'

'Well, I don't need to be _away_ for you to do THAT, Rose.'

'What I'd most like though,' Rose said, as they trundled up the garden path towards their front door, 'is to invite Jenny to OUR house. I've sort of invited her already, to come and make Cauldron Cakes…' Her light, high-pitched voice continued in a singsong fashion, whilst Hermione was murmuring 'Alohomora,' bundling Rose and Hugo into the house, removing their shoes and coats, and frantically seeking a quill to dash off a begging note to Molly. 'The thing is, Mummy, I never have anyone over for a play. So no one invites me, which is why it's so nice, that Jenny said that HER Mummy and Daddy, said I could go toTHEIRhouse, for a sleepover. So can Jenny come and play? Please, Mummy?' Rose said in imploring tones.

'Come HERE?' Hermione asked, suddenly attuning herself to what Rose was saying. She continued rummaging through the drawers of her kitchen unit, pulling out extraneous bits of paper, an unwound ball of string which seemed to go on for an eternity, and an assorted array of Chudley Cannons player cards. 'That would be difficult, Rose. You know it would.'

'But Mummy... it's not fair,' Rose said plaintively, jutting out her bottom lip. 'All my friends have parties at their houses, but I'm never allowed to, and Paula Ingram says there must be a monster in my house, because no one ever comes here, and Davina Bly says we're too poor to have a car.'

'Silly, spiteful nonsense, Rose! You should know better than to listen to that sort of thing – ah, here we are…' Hermione fretted, finally excavating a bedraggled-looking quill. 'Careful, Hugo!' she yelled, as her young son roughly pushed past her, heading straight to the backdoor, which was wide open… leading to the garden.

'It's Uncle Harry!' he squealed excitedly.

'Who's that strange man, Mummy?' Rose said.

Hermione's head shot up, her eyes instantly locking with Draco, who was standing next to Harry, at the open door.

His hair was a little darker than usual, his eyes a rich brownish-green, the colour of sea-soaked seaweed, clearly the result of a fast-fading glamour.

'Hey! How's my little terrier?' Harry chuckled, as Hugo bounced heavily into his arms. He enthusiastically swooped Hugo upwards, so that his head almost crashed into the ceiling, much to Hugo's huge excitement.

Rose held back, hand clinging to her mother's skirt, as she so often did, when a stranger was in the vicinity.

'Harry…' Hermione said, a ghost of a smile on her face. She couldn't bring herself to look at Draco again, barely believing he was standing here, in her kitchen, with her children. 'I was planning to come and see you tonight.'

'_You were_?' Harry said quizzically, releasing Hugo. 'Didn't Molly meet you at the school gates? I sent her an owl. She said she'd look after the kids.'

Hermione blanched. 'No, I – I didn't see her.'

'In which case, she's probably coming _here_.' Harry cast a worried glance at Draco.

'I'll just take a walk around the garden, shall I?' Draco said, quickly latching on, stepping backwards, towards the open door.

'Do you play football?' Hugo shouted enthusiastically. 'I'm going to be Robin Van Persie when I grow up! Do you know who he plays for?'

Draco looked a little nonplussed. 'Sorry… I'm not sure I do…'

He gave Hermione a desperate look. '_Arsenal_,' she mouthed.

'Hold on… it's coming to me…' he said, pretending he was dredging up some deeply hidden memory. '_Chelsea,_ isn't it?'

'CHELSEA?' Hugo scoffed. 'They're _rubbish_! Paul Tankerton supports them, and he eats bogies.'

Draco's face cracked into a broad grin. 'No, silly me. I meant Liverpool.'

'LIVERPOOL? Yuk!' Hugo pointed his finger at his mouth, stuck his tongue out, and made loud barfing sounds.

'Okay then, maybe it's _Arsenal_,' Draco said, triumphantly.

'What's your name?' Rose piped up from behind her mother, in a timorous voice.

Another wave of helpless confusion swept across Draco's face.

'Don't be rude,' Hermione hissed at her daughter, although she was secretly shocked at Rose's uncharacteristic directness.

Harry instantly scooped Rose into his arms, and tickled her furiously, making her squeak with pink-cheeked laughter.

'You can be goalie, and I'll shoot penalties,' Hugo said, tugging at Draco's coat-sleeve. He wasn't going to let this go…

'I think we need to get you to Granny's,' Hermione said, but it was too late. Draco shrugged helplessly at Hermione, allowing Hugo to drag him by the hand.

The loud clank of the doorknocker resounded through the house.

Hermione froze. That had to be Molly. There was no way she could see Draco!

Clearly Harry had the exact same thought.

'Right children!' Harry barked. 'Last one to get their jim-jams and toothbrushes is a nincompoop!' He looked at Draco and nodded brusquely towards the garden.

Hugo relinquished Draco's hand, a look of disappointment on his face.

'Next time,' Draco said, patting the boy on the shoulder.

'Are you a _secret_ person?' Rose chirruped, gazing shiny-eyed at Draco.

Draco solemnly raised his finger to his lips, eyes wide in warning.

Rose giggled.

A second, more urgent clattering at the door, galvanised the children into action.

Draco slipped outside.

Molly didn't take kindly to being left on the doorstep. For once, she chose Harry as the object of her ire, berating him for not telling Hermione his plans… and yes, she had been a little late for school pick-up, but that was because Audrey had popped round to borrow a spot of Dittany… though Merlin knows what she wanted it for… and then Molly hadn't been able to get rid of her.

Five minutes of whirlwind activity later, and Molly and the children had been hustled out of the house, meaning Draco could come back in. The glamour had all but gone. Draco's eyes had already returned to their customary cool, grey stare, and his hair was streaked with a silvery sheen.

'I had to bring him with me.' Harry gestured towards Draco, his buoyant mood seemingly evaporated from the moment Rose and Hugo left the house. 'Francoise had a family matter to attend to.'

'She probably just has a FAMILY, Harry,' Hermione complained, crossing her arms tightly.

'Says the avowed workaholic,' Harry mumbled under his breath, sarcastically.

'Why were you coming to see Harry?' Draco asked in curt tones.

'I ran into Ephraim Golowitz today… or rather, he ran into me…' Hermione explained. 'Harry, you're right to be paranoid about Auror HQ. Ephraim knows you were interviewing Malfoy the other day. He also knew I was there too, but I think I might have got round that.'

Harry shrugged. 'I expected no less.' He glanced at Draco. 'As long as Malfoy's cover isn't blown.'

'And I spoke to Henrik,' she said, somewhat put out that Harry wasn't as bothered as she thought he should be, about Ephraim's insider at Auror HQ. 'He's in New Zealand. Says he's found evidence of a Gilgad facility close to where there was a Dark Flux outbreak. He thinks I should visit.'

'We all should,' Draco said.

'Most definitely,' Harry agreed.

It occurred to Hermione that she should tell them what Ephraim had told the Muggle media about Katya…. She watched Harry ignite the stove with a deft flick of his wand, wondering how she could phrase it, fearing the fallout. 'I'll make us a cuppa while you pack a few things, Hermione,' Harry said.

'How long will I be in Paris?'

'Pack an overnighter, to be on the safe side. Those bureaucratic bastards at the French Ministry finally sobered up long enough, to open the file on Svetlana Kerpin.' He paused. 'We've been granted first access rights to her property, for_ tonight _only, though her house has been plottable for some months now, apparently. Her licence expired last year.'

'That's great news,' Hermione said, though everything about Harry's demeanour spoke to the contrary.

'Yeah, makes up for a pretty shitty week,' he grumbled, grabbing three mugs from a high cupboard. 'I didn't want to bore you with our misery.'

'What's happened?' she asked, alarmed.

'NOTHING,' Harry said bluntly. 'That's what made it so shitty. I've been trying to trace the untraceable… those Gagnons are slippery buggers, let me tell you… and Draco's been at St Gaspard's.'

'Whatever for?'

'Blood-replenishing treatments,' Draco drawled. 'Routine follow-up.'

'I see.' Though she didn't entirely trust either of them at this juncture. There was a tense silence. 'I'll go and pack,' she eventually said.

She grabbed a bag in her bedroom, stuffing it with a few overnight items. She wondered if she should add some extra clothes… this might be the perfect opportunity to make that trip to New Zealand. Harry had fortuitously paved the way.

'Your tea,' Draco said.

He was standing at the entrance to her bedroom, holding a hot, steaming mug.

'Where shall I put it?'

'Oh, just over there,' she said, pointing to her bedside table. Draco stepped deeper into the bedroom, and tried to make space amidst her towering piles of bedtime reading books, for the mug.

She stopped what she was doing, momentarily mesmerised by the sight of him, facing her across the bed.

Just the mere thought of the word 'bed' was enough to send shivers down her spine, as she recalled, with vivid clarity, what he had said, the last time they'd been together.

'_We'd happily ravage each other senseless; you know we would.'_

He was probably right, she realised. Even now, with Harry a matter of metres away, she felt intensely drawn to him – despite being in the same room, standing next to the same bed, where she had conceived her children. His mere physical presence, made her stomach tighten and her heart race unhealthily. She longed to feel his mouth against hers, his hands touching her body.

'You've got nice kids,' he said, a little awkwardly. His eyes gleamed brightly in the dusky grey light, which had fast fallen upon them.

'Thanks.'

'I didn't realise they went to Muggle school.'

'Yes,' she said in a bolder voice, looking him in the eye. 'I wanted them to have something…' She grappled for a way to put it, but her mind had gone blank.

'Something _normal_?' he said, surprising her.

'Sort of.'

'Something of YOU, then.'

'Yes.'

'Must be tricky though. Your daughter seemed a bit upset.'

'It'll blow over,' Hermione said, trying to laugh it off. She could feel a warm, crimson blush staining her cheeks. She wasn't sure it felt appropriate, to be discussing her children with him. 'Anyway. Sorry that they were a bit…forward.'

'It was refreshing.' He smiled wanly. 'It's refreshing, because… Scorpius hasn't talked to me at all, for almost two years; ever since Katya left,' Draco said huskily. 'Probably even before then, actually,' he added, on reflection.

Draco had no idea that she already knew this, which didn't feel right somehow.

'Does he have any friends his own age?' she asked tentatively.

'None,' Draco sighed. 'And I'm never there…'

He looked away from her, seemingly torn between talking more, and heading back to Harry. She briskly resumed her packing, thinking it best to make his mind up for him. Having him _here_, in her bedroom, was almost too much.

But the moment he left the room, she was struck by a sudden, awful realisation. He hadn't been 'torn' between staying and going. He'd looked away, because he felt 'moved'.

And now she'd made herself look like a cold-hearted bitch...

If only she had a Time-Turner, she thought desperately, just so she could replay the last few minutes. Anything to dispel the weighty aching sensation in her chest that seemed to strengthen, every time she replayed their conversation in her head.

XXX

Harry was supping his tea, deep in thought. 'You need to get your wards sorted out Hermione,' he said in abrasive tones. 'Took us three minutes flat to work out your key password to break and enter, didn't it Malfoy?'

'That odd-looking kneazle-creature you had at Hogwarts…' Draco explained.

'Crookshanks?'

'Not exactly testing stuff,' Harry said cuttingly. 'I'd have expected some kind of complicated Ancient Greek algorithm from you, at the very least.'

'Or maybe that was the point?' Draco suggested. 'A sly double-bluff?'

Harry pondered a moment, and then vehemently shook his head. 'Nah… if that was the case, how did YOU guess it so easily?'

'I thought we were going to Paris?' Hermione said in terse tones.

'Indeed we are,' Harry said, plonking his empty mug in the sink. 'Are you ready?'

Draco excused himself to use the bathroom.

'Actually, Harry…' Hermione said hesitantly. She waited for Draco to leave the room. 'There's something else I found out today.'

'Go on,' Harry said.

'In January, last year, Ephraim told the Muggle media that Katya was alive and well… and at home… recovering from a nervous breakdown.'

'Why would he do that, when he knew damn well she wasn't?' Harry said, a puzzled expression on his face.

'Well, it might mean he knows where she is,' Hermione intimated, her voice quavering as she spoke. 'Maybe he's holding her captive?' She couldn't bring herself to mention the more 'lethal' alternative.

'What about the Roses?' Harry asked. 'They've been sent to Draco, from all over Europe.'

'Maybe Svetlana Kerpin was sending them on Ephraim's instruction?'

'I guess that's possible…' Harry mused. 'Ephraim maybe wanted Draco to _think_ Katya's missing, to keep him busy… and out of the way.'

Hermione thought of the note that Katya had left Draco – '_Never Forget._' What if she was in collusion with her father? But when she recalled the wide-eyed, serene young woman she'd seen in the portrait, hanging at Malfoy Manor, somehow that didn't seem likely.

'Or maybe Ephraim said he knew where she was, just to get the press off his back? It could be as simple as that,' Hermione muttered.

'Or it means he knows she's dead already,' Draco said, his voice ringing out from the doorway behind them. 'Maybe he had her killed.'

'That's – that's ridiculous. How could a man kill his own child?' Hermione choked. Her cheeks glowed with embarrassment. How long had he been listening?

'If she knew something that could destroy him, that's how,' Draco said bitterly. 'So when were you planning on telling me about this, Hermione? How long have you known?'

She swallowed hard, unable to meet his hollow-eyed, unwavering gaze.

'Only since today.'

'Who told you? I don't imagine it was Ephraim,' he said snidely.

She shook her head. 'Muggle news reports, on the Internet.'

'And – and did any of these Muggle reports mention… a child?' Draco asked. His voice cracked a little as he spoke.

'No… I'm afraid not.'

She heaved a weary sigh. Of course he'd deserved to know about his own wife and child. What had she been thinking?

She chanced a glance at Draco. He was wearing his blank, bottled-up face – the one she now knew was capable of hiding his true feelings.

Something turned over inside of her, and she suddenly understood her TRUE reluctance to report what Ephraim had told the press. Sure, it was partly out of misguided kindness, wanting to protect Draco's feelings... She'd feared that he would assume the worst. And she'd been right.

But it was also because she feared everything might change between THEM.

She dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand, her head swimming with shame and confusion.

A dead Katya… a _murdered_ Katya, would have the potential to become a pure, sanctified figure in his eyes, tainting any feelings he had for herself.

For some unfathomable reason, this felt like an unbearable loss.

'Right,' Harry said, in resolute tones. 'We've got lots to do. Let's get to Paris, check out this Svetlana Kerpin's house, see what we can find there, and then take a little trip to see this Henrik fellow Hermione's always going on about…' He looked at Draco. 'And then the sooner we can re-integrate you to life at Malfoy Manor, the better.'

'Okay, Potter. But the first thing we do, before any of that, is floo-call Bill Weasley,' Draco declared. 'We want this place warded up to the fucking eyeballs… The Burrow too.'

'I've been meaning to work on the wards,' Hermione said apologetically.

'I told you to talk to Bill about this weeks ago,' Draco said sourly, though there was a glint of anxious concern in his eyes. 'You can't carry on risking your kids the way you have been, Hermione.'

'He'll want to know why.'

Draco looked thoughtful. 'You trust him, right?' he asked both Harry and Hermione.

'Completely,' Harry said.

'Then we tell him… We tell him everything.'

CHAPTER TRACKS: **"Violin Concerto"** by **Philip Glass**

"**Newborn"** by **Muse**

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.


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